Cigarette smoke snakes out of my ashtray of a cup holder. I drum my fingers to Metallica’s solo on the sticky wheel. The air conditioning starts to reek as if something wild crawled in there seeking shelter from an ugly world and died. The drum solo unleashes a savage double bass staccato of machine gun fire. I don’t know why I still listen to Metallica. Probably to remind me of a better time, when all I did was head bang, get laid and let the subway decide my path in life.
My taste buds cry for another smoke and I give into their tears, bringing the pack to my mouth and dropping the next Camel between my lips. I juggle my cell and the lighter around and almost lose sight of the road. A forest appears and the road breaks right through it like nature’s uninvited guest. The moon glows high like a neon exit sign and I know exactly what I need to do. I pick up my cell and scroll through the phone book until I find the number for Things Remembered, one of those gift basket companies with the cookies, soaps, and cheesy thank yous. I got an old girlfriend a soap basket from them a few years back so they should still have my credit card information. As the number begins to dial, I feel that familiar cold pressure at the back of my neck.
“I’m calling a gift basket place,” I say, looking at the Jesus Christ bobble head doll on the dash, who nods with approval. “It’s my father’s birthday.”
I prop the cell to my ear with my shoulder and light the smoke. The lady who answers has a gentle voice. I can hear her doing a radio commercial for gift baskets.
“Hi, thank you for calling Things Remembered. My name is Meadow. How can I help you?”
“Hey Meadow. How’s your night going?”
“Great. Thank you for asking. And yourself?”
“Heh. Well, I’m in a sticky situation. I haven’t spoken to my father in years and now he’s turning sixty five and I want to get him a gift basket, which doesn’t make any sense because the only thing the old man values are his guns and his wine cellar.”
“Well, you are in luck, sir. We happen to have a specialty basket with a bottle of our finest wine, chocolates and assorted nuts.”
“Okay. I guess he’d like that. What kind of wine is it?”
“It’s a Chianti 81 from our very own cellar.”
I let out a drag and see myself as a nineteen-year-old jabroni with a mohawk, jumping into the back of Arty Chase’s Cadillac convertible. We rode to Woodstock for the weekend and never came back.
“Sir?” came the delicate voice.
“Hey. Sorry. 81 was a very…eventful year.”
“I see. Well, where would you like the basket delivered?”
“The address is 4960 North East Miller’s Crossing, Springfield Illinois.”
“You remembered the address.”
“Some things just stick with you.”
“What is your father’s name?”
“Walter Fisher.”
“And your name?”
“Martin Fisher.”
I could hear her fingers dancing along the keyboard and pictured my name engraved in stone, buried under leaves in a forgotten field.
“I see you are a returning customer. Would you like for your Mastercard to be billed?”
“Yeah.”
“And what would you like written on the card?”
“Card?”
“Every gift basket comes with a thank you card with your own personal message.”
“Oh.”
“If you prefer a standard message, we could certainly take care of that for you.”
“No. I’ll come up with one. I might as well. The least I could do.”
“Okay. Whenever you’re ready.”
The pain in the back of my neck spreads to my temples like fire and my mind hits a concrete wall at breakneck speed. I was never good at this writing thing, let alone wishing strangers happy birthday.
“Okay. Let’s see. Dear Dad. Dear Dad. Happy birthday. Enjoy the wine.”
“Mhm.”
“Enjoy the wine. Meadow says it’s the finest.”
Meadow lets out a light giggle and continues typing.
“No. That’s stupid. Take that last part out. Enjoy the wine. Let there be many more glasses.”
I don’t know where my words trail off to, but for some reason my thumping heart is amplified and I could hear my own muffled breathing on the phone. I open my mouth to speak, gather my thoughts, but I could only produce one word.
“Goddammit!”
There is an unbearable silence on the line. The forest seems to grow thicker around me and the road narrower.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Fisher?”
“The bastard was right. He knew I was hanging around the wrong crowd. He warned me. Said you are defined by those you surround yourself with. I didn’t listen. Now look where it’s gotten me. A one-way road.”
And the road begins to curve to the right. The sepia-colored moonlight illuminates the top of the trees and they resemble clawed hands.
“Are you still with me, Meadow?” I ask.
“Yes, Mr. Fisher. I’m still here.”
“Write this.”
“I’m ready.”
Like a spiritual awakening, the words come naturally and sincerely, like they always should have.
“Dear Dad. I’m sorry for abandoning you when you needed me the most. Sorry for not being there when Mom died. I wish I could have been a better person, a better son and live my life in your image. Keep bringing joy to all of those around you. I love you, Dad. No matter what you may think, I always have.”
And now the road is in complete darkness and I could barely see. The Jesus Christ bobble head doll keeps nodding. He likes this. Of course he does.
“Is that all?” asks Meadow.
“Happy birthday. Your son, Marty. Or just Marty.”
“Okie dokie. Your total is fifty nine ninety nine and the package should arrive in two to three business days.”
“Thank you, Meadow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fisher. Hang in there.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I toss my cell on the passenger seat, roll down the window and flick away my cigarette. The songs of a thousand crickets resonate outside in a processional hymn on my behalf. They are welcoming me into the wild.
“Thanks,” I say. “I needed to tie up that loose end.”
The pressure in the back of my neck is released, as Arty Chase lowers the gun. From the rearview mirror he looks cryptic, slouching in my leather seats. He is a shadow defined by his eyes, eyes that have witnessed decades of gloom, yet still carrying remnants of childhood in the form of a youthful glimmer. The gun rests patiently on his knee now.
“Pull over,” his cold voice orders.
I step on the breaks and we emerge into a clearing in the woods.
“Get out.”
I follow orders and open the door to something primordial, where the blood of the ages seeps into soil with the chance of re-awakening as an oak tree. The cold steel presses to the back of my neck again and together we approach the timbers and rodents of the wild and I can’t help noticing how utterly peaceful it is out here. I think of Chianti vineyards out in the Tuscan valley and something I read in some science fiction novel about going back in time and changing all of your wrongdoings and how the universe will find a way to course correct itself and bring you right back where you belong. I think about trees falling in the woods and the possibility that they won’t make a sound because nobody is there to hear it. I look up at the stars and wonder what the world looks like from up there. If there is such a thing is reincarnation, I wish I could be reborn as one of them and watch the earth from my fixed position in the cosmos, searching for all of its faults, missed opportunities and what ifs. They really are beautiful.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
excerpt from A Soldier's Guide to Survival
My wife comes to visit me. I request a private room to avoid the horny gawks at my wife but they won’t give it to me. They tell me to show her around and introduce her to my friends. I tell them the only friend I got she can’t see. I tell them it smells in the dayroom and I don’t want my Rosetta exposed to the smell of old people farts. That’s her name, my wife. Like the Rosetta Stone. Her parents named her after exploring The British Museum on vacation.
“I’m seeing another man,” says my wife, a smoke dangling from her lips. She’s wearing lipstick today and it sticks to the cigarette. Her yellow sundress is a direct contrast to all the cold whiteness in the dayroom. For years Rosetta has slept around with men and now she finally decides to lay me in the face with the truth. About time.
“You unfaithful tramp,” I say with the utmost ease, then look away to pretend I don’t care. I don’t, after all, care. Do I?
“Oh Walter. You must have known this day would come. You didn’t think our ridiculous excuse for a marriage would last, did you?”
“I had some hope, now you’ve crushed it. At least now I have a reasonable excuse to off myself.”
She lets out a drag and I know she’s looking at my wrists. I follow her gaze and hide them under the table. “Dear Rosetta. I ain’t no cutter.”
“I trust they’ve done away with the plastic forks and knives.”
“They cut my meat. All they give me is a spork. You know, a spoon and a fork combined.”
“I know what a spork is, darling.”
“So what makes this guy so different from me.”
“For one thing, he doesn’t try to kill himself because he can’t handle a few corpses hanging around his house. But it’s very simple, really. He’s there for me. He provides. He has answered the five billion dollar question as to what women want and that is security.”
“Is that what they want? Life’s greatest mystery revealed. Quite a let down.”
“Yes, well it’s common sense. If you had some, you wouldn’t be where you are now.”
“Does he make you laugh?”
She stuffs her cigarette in the ashtray and smoke simmers out. “He doesn’t make me hate myself.”
We sit for a moment in silence, listening to the autistic moans from the heated card game. Howdy Doody Time plays quietly on the television. The little black girl watches us forebodingly under the oak tree, shaking her pigtails. The window blinds cast black shadows like in those detective films, my very own prison bars.
“How’s my sister?” asks Rosetta.
“Last time I saw her she was, you know, the usual, cold and pale.”
She doesn’t care too much for my sarcasm and looks away.
“But I haven’t seen her in a while,” I say in hopes of redemption. “In months, actually. That’s a good sign. It means she might have crossed over.”
A sparkle glints in her eyes, a sparkle that can only come with a tear.
“That’s good,” she says, then takes my hand and squeezes it hard. I caress her hand with my finger, then she pulls away and hides it under the table.
“You take care of yourself,” she says, standing up and grabbing her handbag. “Try to find the finer points of life.”
“Look around, sweetheart. This ain’t exactly the Sistine Chapel.”
“It’s all in the details. The little things. Like that man’s sweet smile.”
She was looking at Ronnie.
“Him? That’s not a smile. That’s a down-syndrome deformity.”
“That bad attitude will be the end of you, Walter Groman.”
With that said, she struts by the Go Fish game, her heels clanking on the tile, calf muscles flexing at every step. And as expected, heads turn, Ronnie’s rolling eyes scan my wife from head to toe, even the black orderly stares right at Rosetta’s ass as he opens the door for her.
“This is exactly what I didn’t want!” I scream.
The droolers at the card game laugh at me and I grab their table and knock it over. Cards and chips rain down all over us and the group of crazies scatter in all directions, screaming and thrashing like a pack of chimpanzees. The orderlies come at me but I put up my hands in surrender. You see, that’s what these orderlies want, a fight. But by surrendering I get to prove my sanity.
“That’s not very nice, Walter,” says the black orderly. “Now pick up the mess you made so your friends can keep playing.”
“All right, all right.” I bend down to pick up the table. “But they ain’t my friends.”
I look outside and the little black girl under the oak tree is crying. Jackie Boy is sitting at our bench, watching the birds. His uniform is unbuttoned this time and the smell of gunpowder creeps up my nostrils. He trembles like a Parkinson’s patient and looks much paler than usual. I sit down next to him.
“Way to keep your c-composure, padre,” he says, breathing into his cupped hands. His breath is visible in the cold. We stare at the little black girl who’s wiping her tears off with her pajamas.
“What do you think she wants?” I ask.
“I dunno.”
“Well ask her then. Don’t you dead folk have a network of communication?”
“There are limits. I can’t just waltz wherever I w-want to. I’ve tried leaving the hospital but I can’t.”
“Why here? Why don’t you go haunt your ex girlfriend or something?”
“I dunno how these things work. You think I w-wanna be here? I could be at a titty bar right now, but no instead I’m stick with your c-crazy ass.”
Jackie lets out an agonizing cough.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, the smell of gunpowder growing pungent. “You look deader than usual.”
“I’m…I’m just so f-fucking cold.”
“You’re always cold.”
“No…b-but this time…this time it’s d-different. I’m not well.”
“Of course not. You’re dead.”
“I don’t feel so good, man.”
“That’s the afterlife catching up on you. About time too.”
“Ah fuck you, Walt.”
With a rush of cold air, Jackie Boy from EZ company is gone like a blown out candle. He does this magic trick when he gets angry. That’s how Jackie handles an uncomfortable situation, he bails. He’s a runner. Don’t worry, Jackie Boy, my weak friend. I’ll be joining you soon.
“I’m seeing another man,” says my wife, a smoke dangling from her lips. She’s wearing lipstick today and it sticks to the cigarette. Her yellow sundress is a direct contrast to all the cold whiteness in the dayroom. For years Rosetta has slept around with men and now she finally decides to lay me in the face with the truth. About time.
“You unfaithful tramp,” I say with the utmost ease, then look away to pretend I don’t care. I don’t, after all, care. Do I?
“Oh Walter. You must have known this day would come. You didn’t think our ridiculous excuse for a marriage would last, did you?”
“I had some hope, now you’ve crushed it. At least now I have a reasonable excuse to off myself.”
She lets out a drag and I know she’s looking at my wrists. I follow her gaze and hide them under the table. “Dear Rosetta. I ain’t no cutter.”
“I trust they’ve done away with the plastic forks and knives.”
“They cut my meat. All they give me is a spork. You know, a spoon and a fork combined.”
“I know what a spork is, darling.”
“So what makes this guy so different from me.”
“For one thing, he doesn’t try to kill himself because he can’t handle a few corpses hanging around his house. But it’s very simple, really. He’s there for me. He provides. He has answered the five billion dollar question as to what women want and that is security.”
“Is that what they want? Life’s greatest mystery revealed. Quite a let down.”
“Yes, well it’s common sense. If you had some, you wouldn’t be where you are now.”
“Does he make you laugh?”
She stuffs her cigarette in the ashtray and smoke simmers out. “He doesn’t make me hate myself.”
We sit for a moment in silence, listening to the autistic moans from the heated card game. Howdy Doody Time plays quietly on the television. The little black girl watches us forebodingly under the oak tree, shaking her pigtails. The window blinds cast black shadows like in those detective films, my very own prison bars.
“How’s my sister?” asks Rosetta.
“Last time I saw her she was, you know, the usual, cold and pale.”
She doesn’t care too much for my sarcasm and looks away.
“But I haven’t seen her in a while,” I say in hopes of redemption. “In months, actually. That’s a good sign. It means she might have crossed over.”
A sparkle glints in her eyes, a sparkle that can only come with a tear.
“That’s good,” she says, then takes my hand and squeezes it hard. I caress her hand with my finger, then she pulls away and hides it under the table.
“You take care of yourself,” she says, standing up and grabbing her handbag. “Try to find the finer points of life.”
“Look around, sweetheart. This ain’t exactly the Sistine Chapel.”
“It’s all in the details. The little things. Like that man’s sweet smile.”
She was looking at Ronnie.
“Him? That’s not a smile. That’s a down-syndrome deformity.”
“That bad attitude will be the end of you, Walter Groman.”
With that said, she struts by the Go Fish game, her heels clanking on the tile, calf muscles flexing at every step. And as expected, heads turn, Ronnie’s rolling eyes scan my wife from head to toe, even the black orderly stares right at Rosetta’s ass as he opens the door for her.
“This is exactly what I didn’t want!” I scream.
The droolers at the card game laugh at me and I grab their table and knock it over. Cards and chips rain down all over us and the group of crazies scatter in all directions, screaming and thrashing like a pack of chimpanzees. The orderlies come at me but I put up my hands in surrender. You see, that’s what these orderlies want, a fight. But by surrendering I get to prove my sanity.
“That’s not very nice, Walter,” says the black orderly. “Now pick up the mess you made so your friends can keep playing.”
“All right, all right.” I bend down to pick up the table. “But they ain’t my friends.”
I look outside and the little black girl under the oak tree is crying. Jackie Boy is sitting at our bench, watching the birds. His uniform is unbuttoned this time and the smell of gunpowder creeps up my nostrils. He trembles like a Parkinson’s patient and looks much paler than usual. I sit down next to him.
“Way to keep your c-composure, padre,” he says, breathing into his cupped hands. His breath is visible in the cold. We stare at the little black girl who’s wiping her tears off with her pajamas.
“What do you think she wants?” I ask.
“I dunno.”
“Well ask her then. Don’t you dead folk have a network of communication?”
“There are limits. I can’t just waltz wherever I w-want to. I’ve tried leaving the hospital but I can’t.”
“Why here? Why don’t you go haunt your ex girlfriend or something?”
“I dunno how these things work. You think I w-wanna be here? I could be at a titty bar right now, but no instead I’m stick with your c-crazy ass.”
Jackie lets out an agonizing cough.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, the smell of gunpowder growing pungent. “You look deader than usual.”
“I’m…I’m just so f-fucking cold.”
“You’re always cold.”
“No…b-but this time…this time it’s d-different. I’m not well.”
“Of course not. You’re dead.”
“I don’t feel so good, man.”
“That’s the afterlife catching up on you. About time too.”
“Ah fuck you, Walt.”
With a rush of cold air, Jackie Boy from EZ company is gone like a blown out candle. He does this magic trick when he gets angry. That’s how Jackie handles an uncomfortable situation, he bails. He’s a runner. Don’t worry, Jackie Boy, my weak friend. I’ll be joining you soon.
excerpt from Man Hunt
As dawn approached, the sun began to play games with Eli’s head. There was something about six am. He dreaded it every day. It was the one hour where the sun let loose with colors and out here in the open desolate Catskills, he couldn’t help feeling a sense of vulnerability being exposed to that mighty sun. He couldn’t wait for nightfall. They entered an open clearing and he was hit in the face with a blinding sunbeam. For a second he could’ve sworn he saw Charlie’s figure wandering the forest, wearing the same red Thomas the Tank Engine jacket he wore the last day he ever saw him, a scared and confused look on his frail face. Little Charlie reached his hands out to his father, but was soon lost within the thick foliage.
“Come on, Eli,” came Gabriel’s voice. “You’re lagging.”
“Why do we kill?” Another unexpected question. Eli was full of these.
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Why do we come out here every year and kill deer?”
“We hunt. That’s what we do. And it’s fun.”
“It’s not fun.”
“You used to think it was fun. Now you’re starting to piss me off.”
A deathly cry of anguish echoed across the forest. They both heard it, exchanged frightened glances, then quickened their pace. The screams grew louder and louder and soon they stumbled upon an abandoned log cabin, buried by thick tree branches that resembled skeleton arms. It was a female voice, unleashing mournful wails that reminded Gabriel of his mother. The more he heard them, the more he wished she would shut up. They approached the cabin alertly and peaked through a hole in the wall. Quietly, they took turns looking into the tiny hole. A set of legs was standing tall over a young blonde girl, hands tied behind her back, blood covering her face. Her torturer whistled an eerie tune as he beat her mercilessly.
“What are we gonna do?!” whispered Eli.
“Take the right.”
“This isn’t a fucking deer, man.”
Gabriel grabbed his friend by the collar and squeezed. “Don’t pussy out on me now. That poor girl needs our help.”
The wails grew louder and Gabriel couldn’t help hearing his own mother calling out to him from within the cabin. He loaded his rifle and took the left side of the house. Eli headed towards the right side and disappeared. Inside the house, Gabriel tried to fight off the girl’s calls for help from penetrating his head. He approached the room, leveled his gun and peaked through the crack of the door. The punk was no older than twenty. The room had two doors leading to it and Eli approached the second. He put a finger to his lips and together they nodded. They understood each other. They’d been in this situation before. Precision of the kill. Gabriel signaled his best friend with his fingers. One…Two…
Gabriel kicked the door open and fired. The punk slammed back into the wall with a hole in his chest, shattering the window behind him into a spider web of broken glass. Behind the door, another punk was holding a professional video camera, filming the bloodbath with traumatized eyes.
Gabriel slammed the butt of his rifle into the cameraman’s head. The camera stumbled to the ground. Eli fell to his knees in tears and watched his best friend beat the cameraman mercilessly until his face was reduced to a battered prune, his knuckles and the floor caked with blood. When the punk was clearly dead, Gabriel stood up, his bloody knuckles trembling. He looked over at the girl, expecting a thank you, only to find she was more frightened than she was before, curled up in a ball, muttering a Hail Mary. They then realized the girl wasn’t tied up after all. She buried her face in her free hands and wept, breathing in and out as if she were having convulsions. Then, when it seemed like she was about to lose all the air in her, she let it all out, unleashing an ear-splitting cry of misery. She ran over to her dead boyfriend and threw herself over him.
“JASON! OH MY GOD! JASON! WE WERE JUST FILMING A MOVIE!”
It was then that they both realized what they’d done. Gabriel stood up and looked down at his knuckles, then back at the poor kid he’d mutilated with his bare hands. At that moment, he felt his mother was crying hysterically. He acted on instinct, grabbed the camera, took the tape out and put it in his pocket, then pulled the girl up by the arm.
“What are you doing?” mumbled Eli.
“We are tying her up and hiding these bodies. Let’s go. Move!”
“Come on, Eli,” came Gabriel’s voice. “You’re lagging.”
“Why do we kill?” Another unexpected question. Eli was full of these.
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Why do we come out here every year and kill deer?”
“We hunt. That’s what we do. And it’s fun.”
“It’s not fun.”
“You used to think it was fun. Now you’re starting to piss me off.”
A deathly cry of anguish echoed across the forest. They both heard it, exchanged frightened glances, then quickened their pace. The screams grew louder and louder and soon they stumbled upon an abandoned log cabin, buried by thick tree branches that resembled skeleton arms. It was a female voice, unleashing mournful wails that reminded Gabriel of his mother. The more he heard them, the more he wished she would shut up. They approached the cabin alertly and peaked through a hole in the wall. Quietly, they took turns looking into the tiny hole. A set of legs was standing tall over a young blonde girl, hands tied behind her back, blood covering her face. Her torturer whistled an eerie tune as he beat her mercilessly.
“What are we gonna do?!” whispered Eli.
“Take the right.”
“This isn’t a fucking deer, man.”
Gabriel grabbed his friend by the collar and squeezed. “Don’t pussy out on me now. That poor girl needs our help.”
The wails grew louder and Gabriel couldn’t help hearing his own mother calling out to him from within the cabin. He loaded his rifle and took the left side of the house. Eli headed towards the right side and disappeared. Inside the house, Gabriel tried to fight off the girl’s calls for help from penetrating his head. He approached the room, leveled his gun and peaked through the crack of the door. The punk was no older than twenty. The room had two doors leading to it and Eli approached the second. He put a finger to his lips and together they nodded. They understood each other. They’d been in this situation before. Precision of the kill. Gabriel signaled his best friend with his fingers. One…Two…
Gabriel kicked the door open and fired. The punk slammed back into the wall with a hole in his chest, shattering the window behind him into a spider web of broken glass. Behind the door, another punk was holding a professional video camera, filming the bloodbath with traumatized eyes.
Gabriel slammed the butt of his rifle into the cameraman’s head. The camera stumbled to the ground. Eli fell to his knees in tears and watched his best friend beat the cameraman mercilessly until his face was reduced to a battered prune, his knuckles and the floor caked with blood. When the punk was clearly dead, Gabriel stood up, his bloody knuckles trembling. He looked over at the girl, expecting a thank you, only to find she was more frightened than she was before, curled up in a ball, muttering a Hail Mary. They then realized the girl wasn’t tied up after all. She buried her face in her free hands and wept, breathing in and out as if she were having convulsions. Then, when it seemed like she was about to lose all the air in her, she let it all out, unleashing an ear-splitting cry of misery. She ran over to her dead boyfriend and threw herself over him.
“JASON! OH MY GOD! JASON! WE WERE JUST FILMING A MOVIE!”
It was then that they both realized what they’d done. Gabriel stood up and looked down at his knuckles, then back at the poor kid he’d mutilated with his bare hands. At that moment, he felt his mother was crying hysterically. He acted on instinct, grabbed the camera, took the tape out and put it in his pocket, then pulled the girl up by the arm.
“What are you doing?” mumbled Eli.
“We are tying her up and hiding these bodies. Let’s go. Move!”
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Chapter 12 from Galen Shields: Call Upon the Russian
XII. Call Upon The Russian
A country song played quietly on the radio, as the truck driver followed the narrow dirt road. He switched the high beams on, illuminating his path. A vivid array of stars stretched across the midnight sky and creeping behind the mountains, the lights from Las Vegas let out a luminous glow. He passed the sign that read RESTRICTED AREA: NO TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT. After the sign, it was a straight shot ahead. He glanced at the rearview mirror and examined the crate strapped down to the iron bed of the truck, then focused back on the road, which seemed to stretch endlessly into darkness. He lowered the windows and took in the cool desert air. All was quiet out there, save for the squeaking of crickets.
Finally, a guardhouse appeared in the gloom a barbed-wire fence became visible surrounding the perimeter. The driver came to a complete stop at the guardhouse and two soldiers dressed in Air Force jumpsuits emerged, each armed with an assault rifle. The driver gave the first soldier a friendly nod.
“This vehicle and its cargo are authorized under Vane Horizons,” said the driver. “I have a scheduled drop-off for a shipment 411.”
“Right on time, sir,” said the soldier. “You may proceed.”
The truck drove through the gate and continued down the road. The driver stayed alert, studying every aircraft hangar and facility along the road. Even at this time of night, scientists roamed the grounds like pedestrians in a small town, walking about their busy schedules. This top secret government and military facility went by many names such as Dreamland, Paradise Ranch, Watertown Strip, but most notoriously known to the world as Area 51.
The truck pulled up to the backside of a colossal white hangar, large enough to fit several aircrafts and reversed into a loading dock. The driver stepped out of the truck and climbed on the iron bed, then unloosened the straps over the sealed wooden crate. A bald man came out of the hangar wearing a lab coat and black slacks.
“Shipment 411,” said the bald man. “We’ve been waiting for this device with much anticipation.”
The driver nodded and the bald man climbed onto the bed. Together they lifted the crate and moved it into the loading dock.
“It’s heavier than I thought,” said the bald man. “Your friends at Vane spared no expense, huh?”
“I’m just the delivery man,” said the driver dryly, as he lowered the crate onto a conveyor belt. The bald man pressed a button on a control panel on the wall and the crate was transported into the hangar on the conveyor belt.
“I do request I get the crate back when they are done with it,” said the driver. “We like to recycle them.”
“Of course,” said the bald man before entering the hangar once again.
The driver got back into his truck where he sat, and waited.
The crate moved steadily along the conveyor belt and arrived into the hangar, a massive enclosed structure of metal, stretching two hundred feet high. This monstrosity of an edifice was more than just an aircraft hangar, however, for it housed the most fascinating and unique aircraft known to mankind.
The crate came to a complete standstill at the end of the conveyor belt.
“Shipment 411,” came the automated voice on the intercom.
Instantly, three scientists abandoned their computer consoles and electron microscopes and headed towards the motionless crate. One scientist with curly hair and wire-rimmed spectacles stayed at his console, however, and watched with eager eyes. The three scientists gathered around the wooden crate that read Vane Horizons along its exterior and commented on its groundbreaking contents. They marveled on such a technology, while one scientist tried to pry it open with a crow bar, the wooden top slowly breaking off into splinters. All the while, the scientist with the spectacles accessed the security system on his console and rubbed his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. He heard a repetitive thumping noise that seemed to echo in his head and for a moment thought it was his heartbeat, but then realized it was his watch, ticking closer to the unbearable seconds that lay ahead. The wooden top of the crate cracked open just as he shut the security cameras off. The man’s timer began the countdown.
The Russian popped up from inside the crate with a cigar in his mouth and stared down at the three scientists, hands gripping onto his gun.
A scientist stumbled back. “What the—.”
His words were cut short as a beam of white light shot out from The Russian’s gun and vaporized his body into a grey cloud of ash. The Russian’s lips curled into a smile, the cigar dangling, and the remaining scientists howled in frightened unison as their colleague drifted off into the air. The Russian took his time climbing out of the wooden crate and jumped onto the ground, his black military boots thumping hard on the cement. He wore a leather jacket today under a Kevlar vest and a pair of crinkled black slacks. The battle scars on his forehead were hidden by his streaks of long black hair. His next victim made a run for it so The Russian calmly lifted his gun and fired directly into the running man’s back. The light stretched throughout his limbs and the cloud of ash continued onward, still running for the door, then quickly rose into the ceiling. The Russian watched the ashes rise and fall and thought it a lovely sight that reminded him of the dust clouds in his uncle’s farm.
The last scientist dropped to his knees in shock, staring down at his colleague’s ashes. The Russian took his time on this one. He pulled out his lighter with the KGB emblem, lit his cigar, then snapped the lighter shut. He let the flame settle and gave the cigar a few puffs, before letting out a plume of smoke and stuffing his lighter back in his jacket pocket. The scientist was trembling now, staring up at his killer overwhelmed and beat. The Russian lifted his gun and pressed the tube, which served as the barrel, against the man’s forehead, then let out a childish whistle.
“I admire your willingness to accept death,” came The Russian’s low chilling voice. “If only they were all so prepared.”
A plume of smoke rose from The Russian’s mouth as the ray of light shot straight through the man’s skull. The Russian stepped back as to avoid contact with the ashes. Some got on his jacket and he quickly brushed the particles off his arms.
“Are you about done over there?” said the man with the spectacles at his console.
The Russian nodded sternly.
“We have five minutes before security goes back online.”
The Russian looked up and felt a twinge of excitement as his eyes scanned the immense flying saucer standing proud along the hangar. It was exactly how he’d imagined it, literally a saucer-shaped silver craft with black metallic circles along its hull. The U.F.O. was propped on display against four pillars at each side with wires attached to the ship from all sides, connecting into different stations. Just standing in its presence gave him a mystical aura that made his skin crawl under the thick Kevlar.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
He followed the scientist with the spectacles toward the ship, climbed onto its elevated platform and headed below it. The Russian looked up at the bottom of the alien craft and admired the simplicity of its design. No sign of pipes and complicated layering. Everything was simply flat as a plate and a silver that gleamed in the light of the hangar. As they walked, he let his hands run along the bottom of the ship and his watch instantly slammed hard against its exterior.
“It’s magnetic,” said the scientist. “Watch it.”
The Russian then noticed the hum of a magnetic field somewhere within the ship. He could feel the incomprehensible power of another world resting above him and he longed for its technology, yearned its abilities to overcome the impossible.
“Is this the renowned Roswell spacecraft?” he asked with a fascinated curiosity.
“No. All we have left of that one is debris. This one landed two months ago in Bolder Canyon, Colorado without the slightest dent or a scratch. Same kind of ship as Roswell’s though. Something tells me this beauty was given to us.”
“In exchange for what?”
The scientist looked at him. “I don’t know.”
They continued walking below the ship until the scientist stopped under an opening above them. It was a square hole of perfect dimensions, where they had been working under and inside was a silver oval-shaped instrument attached to what seemed like the mechanics of the ship.
“This is it,” said the scientist.
Together they cautiously pulled the device, that resembled a large egg, out of the hole.
“With this drive, your friends will find what they like to call Avalon.”
The Russian pulled it out of his hands. “I will take that.” He then carefully placed it within his leather jacket and held it tightly.
“Two minutes,” said the scientist, beaming down at his watch.
They walked back out from under the ship, down the platform and stopped dead in their tracks. The scientist turned around and glared up at the Russian behind his spectacles, who towered over him in his boots.
“Are you ready?” asked The Russian, taking out a knife from his sheath. The scientist stood rigid and motionless, his hands at his sides.
“In the chest,” he said with a face covered in sweat. “Watch my heart.”
“What kind of man do you think I am?”
“You tell me.”
“No,” said The Russian, taking a step closer until their faces met. “You tell me.”
The man with the spectacles sighed. “I saw the way you killed those poor bastards back there. Looked like you were enjoying it. I’d say you’re just a regular old psychopath, that’s what I think.”
The Russian beamed at him in deep thought and responded with a simple, “Hhm.” Then, without warning, he thrust his knife into the man’s chest, then pushed it deeper until he felt it make contact with bone and pushed through that. The man’s eyes opened wide and the spectacles fell off his face. A trickle of blood oozed out from the corners of his mouth as he collapsed. The Russian pulled out the knife, wiped the blade clean against his Kevlar vest and sheathed it. The man squirmed in agony, then let out a moan of fear when The Russian lifted the gun over him.
“We had a deal!” yelled the man, blood gurgling in his throat. “No! No! No!”
“This is a top secret government and military facility. I am afraid you are an unnecessary risk.”
“Please!” pleaded the man. “I have a wife!”
“You were absolutely right,” said The Russian. “I am going to enjoy this.” He turned a knob at the edge of his gun, switching it to maximum power. “I promise, you will not feel a thing.”
The man’s scream was cut short by his disintegration and the echo continued to travel even after he was gone. The Russian put out his cigar over the ashes on the floor and placed it in his front jacket pocket for keepsake. He gripped the device inside his jacket and climbed back onto the conveyor belt and into the crate where he came from. He sprawled on his back like a corpse in a coffin and lifted the wooden top over himself.
“I’m in,” he said to the microphone attached to his collar. The conveyor belt began to move again, transporting him back through the tunnel. He began to whistle his own version of Whistle While You Work and even as the truck driver lifted the crate back onto the iron bed of the truck, he continued whistling, adding his own harmonies. He lay in peace, holding the device gently as if it were an infant and waited for the truck to exit the premises. After a few bumps and turns, the driver spoke into his earpiece.
“We’ve crossed the safe zone. All clear.”
The Russian kicked the wooden top off the crate and it toppled to the side. He sat up into the desert night and enjoyed the cool wind in his face. Resting in the crate, as if it were a bathtub, he pulled out the device and ran his fingers over its sleek material. Such a powerful machine, capable of warping an entire ship into other worlds, resting in his hands like a toy. His phone began to vibrate and he pulled it out. The caller ID said it was Jasper Creed, Vane Horizons’s second in command. Just the person he wanted to speak to.
He answered and said, “What a captivating piece of hardware.”
“Where have you got it?” came Creed’s deep raspy voice.
“In my hands.”
“Good. Bring it to The Fortress.”
“If I am to fly all the way to France for you, Creed, I expect to have my money waiting there.”
“Your money can wait. I have another assignment for you.”
The Russian grumbled, then dropped a gloved fist hard onto the wooden crate. “I am not your guinea pig. I only took this job because I want to see Avalon discovered as much as you do. If there is no bounty, there is no job!”
“Relax, Mr. Harkov. This is a regular job. The target’s name is Galen Shields. A fifteen-year-old traveler who is causing quite an uproar in the world.”
“How much are you putting up for the boy?”
“The grandest bounty of them all, don’t you worry. Bring him in alive. He is Vane’s most valuable commodity.”
“Just another traveler to me.”
“Not entirely. This one is…a fast learner, so to speak.”
The Russian switched off his gun. “Finally, someone I could have fun with.”
“Oh and Harkov. There is no need to fly here. The driver will take you to a portal in Silver City, New Mexico that will take you to The Fortress.”
“I wasn’t aware there was such a portal.”
“My friend, if you aware of half the portals on this planet, I wouldn’t be doing my job.”
Creed hung up. The Russian let out a frustrated sigh, sat back into his wooden crate and continued to whistle along the desert highway.
A country song played quietly on the radio, as the truck driver followed the narrow dirt road. He switched the high beams on, illuminating his path. A vivid array of stars stretched across the midnight sky and creeping behind the mountains, the lights from Las Vegas let out a luminous glow. He passed the sign that read RESTRICTED AREA: NO TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT. After the sign, it was a straight shot ahead. He glanced at the rearview mirror and examined the crate strapped down to the iron bed of the truck, then focused back on the road, which seemed to stretch endlessly into darkness. He lowered the windows and took in the cool desert air. All was quiet out there, save for the squeaking of crickets.
Finally, a guardhouse appeared in the gloom a barbed-wire fence became visible surrounding the perimeter. The driver came to a complete stop at the guardhouse and two soldiers dressed in Air Force jumpsuits emerged, each armed with an assault rifle. The driver gave the first soldier a friendly nod.
“This vehicle and its cargo are authorized under Vane Horizons,” said the driver. “I have a scheduled drop-off for a shipment 411.”
“Right on time, sir,” said the soldier. “You may proceed.”
The truck drove through the gate and continued down the road. The driver stayed alert, studying every aircraft hangar and facility along the road. Even at this time of night, scientists roamed the grounds like pedestrians in a small town, walking about their busy schedules. This top secret government and military facility went by many names such as Dreamland, Paradise Ranch, Watertown Strip, but most notoriously known to the world as Area 51.
The truck pulled up to the backside of a colossal white hangar, large enough to fit several aircrafts and reversed into a loading dock. The driver stepped out of the truck and climbed on the iron bed, then unloosened the straps over the sealed wooden crate. A bald man came out of the hangar wearing a lab coat and black slacks.
“Shipment 411,” said the bald man. “We’ve been waiting for this device with much anticipation.”
The driver nodded and the bald man climbed onto the bed. Together they lifted the crate and moved it into the loading dock.
“It’s heavier than I thought,” said the bald man. “Your friends at Vane spared no expense, huh?”
“I’m just the delivery man,” said the driver dryly, as he lowered the crate onto a conveyor belt. The bald man pressed a button on a control panel on the wall and the crate was transported into the hangar on the conveyor belt.
“I do request I get the crate back when they are done with it,” said the driver. “We like to recycle them.”
“Of course,” said the bald man before entering the hangar once again.
The driver got back into his truck where he sat, and waited.
The crate moved steadily along the conveyor belt and arrived into the hangar, a massive enclosed structure of metal, stretching two hundred feet high. This monstrosity of an edifice was more than just an aircraft hangar, however, for it housed the most fascinating and unique aircraft known to mankind.
The crate came to a complete standstill at the end of the conveyor belt.
“Shipment 411,” came the automated voice on the intercom.
Instantly, three scientists abandoned their computer consoles and electron microscopes and headed towards the motionless crate. One scientist with curly hair and wire-rimmed spectacles stayed at his console, however, and watched with eager eyes. The three scientists gathered around the wooden crate that read Vane Horizons along its exterior and commented on its groundbreaking contents. They marveled on such a technology, while one scientist tried to pry it open with a crow bar, the wooden top slowly breaking off into splinters. All the while, the scientist with the spectacles accessed the security system on his console and rubbed his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. He heard a repetitive thumping noise that seemed to echo in his head and for a moment thought it was his heartbeat, but then realized it was his watch, ticking closer to the unbearable seconds that lay ahead. The wooden top of the crate cracked open just as he shut the security cameras off. The man’s timer began the countdown.
The Russian popped up from inside the crate with a cigar in his mouth and stared down at the three scientists, hands gripping onto his gun.
A scientist stumbled back. “What the—.”
His words were cut short as a beam of white light shot out from The Russian’s gun and vaporized his body into a grey cloud of ash. The Russian’s lips curled into a smile, the cigar dangling, and the remaining scientists howled in frightened unison as their colleague drifted off into the air. The Russian took his time climbing out of the wooden crate and jumped onto the ground, his black military boots thumping hard on the cement. He wore a leather jacket today under a Kevlar vest and a pair of crinkled black slacks. The battle scars on his forehead were hidden by his streaks of long black hair. His next victim made a run for it so The Russian calmly lifted his gun and fired directly into the running man’s back. The light stretched throughout his limbs and the cloud of ash continued onward, still running for the door, then quickly rose into the ceiling. The Russian watched the ashes rise and fall and thought it a lovely sight that reminded him of the dust clouds in his uncle’s farm.
The last scientist dropped to his knees in shock, staring down at his colleague’s ashes. The Russian took his time on this one. He pulled out his lighter with the KGB emblem, lit his cigar, then snapped the lighter shut. He let the flame settle and gave the cigar a few puffs, before letting out a plume of smoke and stuffing his lighter back in his jacket pocket. The scientist was trembling now, staring up at his killer overwhelmed and beat. The Russian lifted his gun and pressed the tube, which served as the barrel, against the man’s forehead, then let out a childish whistle.
“I admire your willingness to accept death,” came The Russian’s low chilling voice. “If only they were all so prepared.”
A plume of smoke rose from The Russian’s mouth as the ray of light shot straight through the man’s skull. The Russian stepped back as to avoid contact with the ashes. Some got on his jacket and he quickly brushed the particles off his arms.
“Are you about done over there?” said the man with the spectacles at his console.
The Russian nodded sternly.
“We have five minutes before security goes back online.”
The Russian looked up and felt a twinge of excitement as his eyes scanned the immense flying saucer standing proud along the hangar. It was exactly how he’d imagined it, literally a saucer-shaped silver craft with black metallic circles along its hull. The U.F.O. was propped on display against four pillars at each side with wires attached to the ship from all sides, connecting into different stations. Just standing in its presence gave him a mystical aura that made his skin crawl under the thick Kevlar.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
He followed the scientist with the spectacles toward the ship, climbed onto its elevated platform and headed below it. The Russian looked up at the bottom of the alien craft and admired the simplicity of its design. No sign of pipes and complicated layering. Everything was simply flat as a plate and a silver that gleamed in the light of the hangar. As they walked, he let his hands run along the bottom of the ship and his watch instantly slammed hard against its exterior.
“It’s magnetic,” said the scientist. “Watch it.”
The Russian then noticed the hum of a magnetic field somewhere within the ship. He could feel the incomprehensible power of another world resting above him and he longed for its technology, yearned its abilities to overcome the impossible.
“Is this the renowned Roswell spacecraft?” he asked with a fascinated curiosity.
“No. All we have left of that one is debris. This one landed two months ago in Bolder Canyon, Colorado without the slightest dent or a scratch. Same kind of ship as Roswell’s though. Something tells me this beauty was given to us.”
“In exchange for what?”
The scientist looked at him. “I don’t know.”
They continued walking below the ship until the scientist stopped under an opening above them. It was a square hole of perfect dimensions, where they had been working under and inside was a silver oval-shaped instrument attached to what seemed like the mechanics of the ship.
“This is it,” said the scientist.
Together they cautiously pulled the device, that resembled a large egg, out of the hole.
“With this drive, your friends will find what they like to call Avalon.”
The Russian pulled it out of his hands. “I will take that.” He then carefully placed it within his leather jacket and held it tightly.
“Two minutes,” said the scientist, beaming down at his watch.
They walked back out from under the ship, down the platform and stopped dead in their tracks. The scientist turned around and glared up at the Russian behind his spectacles, who towered over him in his boots.
“Are you ready?” asked The Russian, taking out a knife from his sheath. The scientist stood rigid and motionless, his hands at his sides.
“In the chest,” he said with a face covered in sweat. “Watch my heart.”
“What kind of man do you think I am?”
“You tell me.”
“No,” said The Russian, taking a step closer until their faces met. “You tell me.”
The man with the spectacles sighed. “I saw the way you killed those poor bastards back there. Looked like you were enjoying it. I’d say you’re just a regular old psychopath, that’s what I think.”
The Russian beamed at him in deep thought and responded with a simple, “Hhm.” Then, without warning, he thrust his knife into the man’s chest, then pushed it deeper until he felt it make contact with bone and pushed through that. The man’s eyes opened wide and the spectacles fell off his face. A trickle of blood oozed out from the corners of his mouth as he collapsed. The Russian pulled out the knife, wiped the blade clean against his Kevlar vest and sheathed it. The man squirmed in agony, then let out a moan of fear when The Russian lifted the gun over him.
“We had a deal!” yelled the man, blood gurgling in his throat. “No! No! No!”
“This is a top secret government and military facility. I am afraid you are an unnecessary risk.”
“Please!” pleaded the man. “I have a wife!”
“You were absolutely right,” said The Russian. “I am going to enjoy this.” He turned a knob at the edge of his gun, switching it to maximum power. “I promise, you will not feel a thing.”
The man’s scream was cut short by his disintegration and the echo continued to travel even after he was gone. The Russian put out his cigar over the ashes on the floor and placed it in his front jacket pocket for keepsake. He gripped the device inside his jacket and climbed back onto the conveyor belt and into the crate where he came from. He sprawled on his back like a corpse in a coffin and lifted the wooden top over himself.
“I’m in,” he said to the microphone attached to his collar. The conveyor belt began to move again, transporting him back through the tunnel. He began to whistle his own version of Whistle While You Work and even as the truck driver lifted the crate back onto the iron bed of the truck, he continued whistling, adding his own harmonies. He lay in peace, holding the device gently as if it were an infant and waited for the truck to exit the premises. After a few bumps and turns, the driver spoke into his earpiece.
“We’ve crossed the safe zone. All clear.”
The Russian kicked the wooden top off the crate and it toppled to the side. He sat up into the desert night and enjoyed the cool wind in his face. Resting in the crate, as if it were a bathtub, he pulled out the device and ran his fingers over its sleek material. Such a powerful machine, capable of warping an entire ship into other worlds, resting in his hands like a toy. His phone began to vibrate and he pulled it out. The caller ID said it was Jasper Creed, Vane Horizons’s second in command. Just the person he wanted to speak to.
He answered and said, “What a captivating piece of hardware.”
“Where have you got it?” came Creed’s deep raspy voice.
“In my hands.”
“Good. Bring it to The Fortress.”
“If I am to fly all the way to France for you, Creed, I expect to have my money waiting there.”
“Your money can wait. I have another assignment for you.”
The Russian grumbled, then dropped a gloved fist hard onto the wooden crate. “I am not your guinea pig. I only took this job because I want to see Avalon discovered as much as you do. If there is no bounty, there is no job!”
“Relax, Mr. Harkov. This is a regular job. The target’s name is Galen Shields. A fifteen-year-old traveler who is causing quite an uproar in the world.”
“How much are you putting up for the boy?”
“The grandest bounty of them all, don’t you worry. Bring him in alive. He is Vane’s most valuable commodity.”
“Just another traveler to me.”
“Not entirely. This one is…a fast learner, so to speak.”
The Russian switched off his gun. “Finally, someone I could have fun with.”
“Oh and Harkov. There is no need to fly here. The driver will take you to a portal in Silver City, New Mexico that will take you to The Fortress.”
“I wasn’t aware there was such a portal.”
“My friend, if you aware of half the portals on this planet, I wouldn’t be doing my job.”
Creed hung up. The Russian let out a frustrated sigh, sat back into his wooden crate and continued to whistle along the desert highway.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Graduate film review
The Graduate
The Graduate holds a special place in my DVD collection as one of my most cherished films. It’s one that speaks to me on a level we can all relate to. Watching it once again in an actual theatre displayed on a wide screen was an absolute joy and it wasn’t until I saw it at the Cosford that I realized the film is perfect in my eyes. I just couldn’t find a flaw, besides a shaky zoom. Every shot had its depth, whether through hidden meaning or simple depth of field.
I first saw this film as an immature fifteen year old kid and I began to ask myself for every situation after (girls and school), What would Ben do? I learned to act rather than think. I was obviously too young to understand this film’s true meaning. Watching it a little older I realized there was nothing good about Ben’s actions. His intentions and love for Elaine were genuine but his way of expressing that was insane. In the end, after all the laughs and smiles, Ben and Elaine stare off into space, just as Ben did at the beginning of the film. He’s right back where he left off, lost and without agency. Sure, they could run off, disappear and start new lives somewhere, but is it really worth it for Elaine? Does she love him that much just to escape what could have been a secure marriage with that other frat dude? Ben did, after all, do all those horrible things. I think her face said it all, that maybe love is not enough. So when I first saw this movie I loved its happy ending and disregarded their blank expressions as bad acting. Now, I now the ending is crucial and defines the essence of Ben. If he keeps acting the way he is, he will always be lost.
Let’s get into the cinematography, which has inspired my own films in so many ways. From its opening shot to the last, every one had its depth. I think the opening credit sequence on the moving platform is a direct mirror to the last shot on the bus. They both express Ben’s descent into nothingness. The imagery of Ben under the pool and framed within the fish tank all symbolize the way he feels, drowning in a world he cannot understand. One shot that stood out for me was when Ben and Mr. Robinson were talking in the living room. All you could see are their heads deep in shadows and between their talking heads is a huge space and in the background is the rest of the house out of focus. When Mrs. Robinson comes down the stairs, the shot rack focuses from the two men to her. The movie is crammed with beautiful shots and sequences like this. I could go on about that montage for another page but I need to move on.
The music by Simon & Garfunkel sets the right tone from the beginning to the end and I think the lyrics truly capture what is going on. The Sound of Silence addresses the film’s use of sound. April Come She Will mentions the months falling off the calendar, as Ben lounges day by day in the pool. Even Mrs. Robinson has her own anthem.
Mike Nichols scored big with The Graduate. He found a topic that would target a particular audience and made it happen, painting a perfect picture of a college graduate, drifting through life without reason or purpose. I’m sure all of us could find a little bit of Ben within us.
The Graduate holds a special place in my DVD collection as one of my most cherished films. It’s one that speaks to me on a level we can all relate to. Watching it once again in an actual theatre displayed on a wide screen was an absolute joy and it wasn’t until I saw it at the Cosford that I realized the film is perfect in my eyes. I just couldn’t find a flaw, besides a shaky zoom. Every shot had its depth, whether through hidden meaning or simple depth of field.
I first saw this film as an immature fifteen year old kid and I began to ask myself for every situation after (girls and school), What would Ben do? I learned to act rather than think. I was obviously too young to understand this film’s true meaning. Watching it a little older I realized there was nothing good about Ben’s actions. His intentions and love for Elaine were genuine but his way of expressing that was insane. In the end, after all the laughs and smiles, Ben and Elaine stare off into space, just as Ben did at the beginning of the film. He’s right back where he left off, lost and without agency. Sure, they could run off, disappear and start new lives somewhere, but is it really worth it for Elaine? Does she love him that much just to escape what could have been a secure marriage with that other frat dude? Ben did, after all, do all those horrible things. I think her face said it all, that maybe love is not enough. So when I first saw this movie I loved its happy ending and disregarded their blank expressions as bad acting. Now, I now the ending is crucial and defines the essence of Ben. If he keeps acting the way he is, he will always be lost.
Let’s get into the cinematography, which has inspired my own films in so many ways. From its opening shot to the last, every one had its depth. I think the opening credit sequence on the moving platform is a direct mirror to the last shot on the bus. They both express Ben’s descent into nothingness. The imagery of Ben under the pool and framed within the fish tank all symbolize the way he feels, drowning in a world he cannot understand. One shot that stood out for me was when Ben and Mr. Robinson were talking in the living room. All you could see are their heads deep in shadows and between their talking heads is a huge space and in the background is the rest of the house out of focus. When Mrs. Robinson comes down the stairs, the shot rack focuses from the two men to her. The movie is crammed with beautiful shots and sequences like this. I could go on about that montage for another page but I need to move on.
The music by Simon & Garfunkel sets the right tone from the beginning to the end and I think the lyrics truly capture what is going on. The Sound of Silence addresses the film’s use of sound. April Come She Will mentions the months falling off the calendar, as Ben lounges day by day in the pool. Even Mrs. Robinson has her own anthem.
Mike Nichols scored big with The Graduate. He found a topic that would target a particular audience and made it happen, painting a perfect picture of a college graduate, drifting through life without reason or purpose. I’m sure all of us could find a little bit of Ben within us.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
excerpt from Galen Shields
Her heels thumped on the cold floor. The drone of heavy machinery drowned out the fire alarm that was now a distant whine. To her left was a series of mainframe computers that seemed to power the room’s equipment. In the center of the room was a circular chamber enclosed in glass. Insulated red cables connected the chamber to the nearest computers. Suddenly, the chamber began to rotate clockwise and hiss loudly, as a cold air shot out of an overhead pipe. She took in the scent and it smelled of helium. She wondered if she should be wearing any protective gear. A facemask, perhaps? She looked down and noticed the chamber was situated over a moving plate and with every rotation, a cloud of helium blew out of the pipe. She approached the chamber vigilantly, put her hand on the thick glass and peered in. When her eyes finished adjusting to the blinding blue light, she realized she was staring at a young girl.
“Bloody hell,” she said as her stomach lurched.
The girl lay on her back, her closed eyelids twitching as her head rolled back and forth on the platform she was so forcefully sprawled upon. A strange headgear rested atop her shaved head connected to a complex system of wires like glowing snakes. Her hands were bound to the platform by thick metal clasps and at every rotation of the chamber, her hand trembled. She looked no older than fifteen. A monitor flashed pictures of her brain and it made her sick to her stomach. She felt disgusted and betrayed. To know the company her husband put so many years of dedication into was doing such a thing made her want to shatter some of these monitors. Thick bold words flashed on the monitor over the girl’s brain X-ray.
TIME IS LIMITED. SWTICH RADIATION BEAM OFF ON LEFT CONSOLE.
She hurried over to the console, glimpsing back and forth at the poor girl in the rotating chamber. Her hand fell upon every button and switch on the console.
“Help me,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
She felt at any moment that air lock would hiss open and tall men in lab coats would pin her down. No answer from the messenger. She would have to do this on her own. Her eyes scanned the computer screen and landed on the words SERENA HILL STAGE SIX. Below was a subject history and a moving graph showing Serena’s brain patterns. Her eyes then found the radiation beam key. She tapped on the key and a separate window opened up, displaying its functions. She searched for an off key or something, but all she saw was complicated digital jargon. She decided to take her chances and pressed the first button her fingers could find, then looked up to see what happened. The circular radiation beam pointed robotically down over Serena and unleashed a yellow ray of light that shimmered across her body.
“No! No! That is not what I wanted!”
Serena began to tremble violently in her seat. In panic, she pressed another button and the chamber began rotating again, but this time it didn’t stop and with every rotation, the tube unleashed another rush of cold helium into the air. The computer didn’t seem to like this because it flashed the words, REDUCE HELIUM INTAKE.
“Well I can’t damn well reduce the helium if you will not cooperate!”
She pressed the same button as before and the mechanical radiation beam lifted back onto the roof and shut off, followed by a vibrating surge of power in the room. She pressed a key that said HOLDING RELEASE and instantly, the metal clasps around Serena’s hands and legs opened up and the girl shot up in spasms, her eyes drowned in tears.
“Dear God! How does one open this thing?!”
She scrolled through the endless keys, as Serena fell off the platform and collapsed on the ground, still connected to the headgear. The wires shot out from her head, keeping her propped against the platform in an awkward position. Charlotte pressed a button labeled CHAMBER FUNC.1 and the glass door slid open. Almost tripping over her heels, Charlotte ran as fast as she could into the chamber and kneeled down next to Serena, who clawed at the floor frantically, her legs kicking the platform behind her.
“There, there,” said Charlotte, not knowing what to do.
With a pale face, Serena pulled off the headgear and one by one yanked out every wire from the suction pads on her forehead, then collapsed with defeat. She opened her parched lips and spoke.
“A-avalon and back,” she said, her voice shot. “It’s…just a bedtime story. N-no such thing as m-monsters.”
Charlotte wrapped her arms around the girl and stroked her cheek with the back of her hand. Her face was ice cold. In fact, the chamber was freezing. She wrapped her shawl tightly around the two of them and rocked Serena in her arms like she were a child.
“You poor thing,” said Charlotte, looking around the room frantically. “We need to figure out how to get you out of here without anyone—.”
“H-her vitals are strong,” interjected Serena with her eyes closed. “Making primary incision.”
The poor girl was somewhere else, lost in God knows where. Looking at her up close, Charlotte could see she was once a much more beautiful girl. She had a small nose and wide pretty eyes. Her mouth was long and perfectly formed. Behind the paleness was a hidden beauty. She rubbed what was once probably a bed of lush black hair that matched her thick eyelashes. No doubt they shaved her head for this tormenting procedure.
“What in God’s name have they done to you?”
Charlotte got on her feet and struggled to help the girl up. She was a tall one.
“Avalon,” whispered Serena again, her green eyes visible now. They were indeed beautiful.
“You’ll tell me all about Avalon once we get out of here. Come now, on your feet. Up!”
“Avalon is where the sand dances in the wind. Pure soil and midnight sunsets. The stars rejoice when the Sons of Avalon march upon the Elysium Fields.”
“Sounds like a vacation. Work with me, dear.”
Charlotte tugged at her arm, but Serena pulled away and was able to lift herself on her own. She swayed side to side in an intoxicated hypnosis. She was no doubt filled with numerous sedatives and drugs. For the first time, Serena looked straight at her, tilted her head and said, “You have kind eyes.”
She stepped back, as if stepping onto an invisible moving platform, and lifted her arms out beside her. Charlotte just watched, entranced by her mystery. She moved her little hands around beside her, feeling the air, swatting it as if there was an invisible fog at her sides. Charlotte’s mouth dropped as she witnessed Serena’s irises turn into gleaming silver that spread across her entire eyeballs. With arms pointing out beside her, Serena rolled her head back as her silver eyes glistened against the blue light of the chamber.
“Time to go now,” she said.
The air grew into an arctic cold and Serena vanished into the blue air, leaving behind her a trail of visible energy that instantly faded into oblivion. Charlotte remained motionless in the chamber, watching the vacant air where seconds before, Serena stood.
“This job just got a lot more interesting.”
“Bloody hell,” she said as her stomach lurched.
The girl lay on her back, her closed eyelids twitching as her head rolled back and forth on the platform she was so forcefully sprawled upon. A strange headgear rested atop her shaved head connected to a complex system of wires like glowing snakes. Her hands were bound to the platform by thick metal clasps and at every rotation of the chamber, her hand trembled. She looked no older than fifteen. A monitor flashed pictures of her brain and it made her sick to her stomach. She felt disgusted and betrayed. To know the company her husband put so many years of dedication into was doing such a thing made her want to shatter some of these monitors. Thick bold words flashed on the monitor over the girl’s brain X-ray.
TIME IS LIMITED. SWTICH RADIATION BEAM OFF ON LEFT CONSOLE.
She hurried over to the console, glimpsing back and forth at the poor girl in the rotating chamber. Her hand fell upon every button and switch on the console.
“Help me,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
She felt at any moment that air lock would hiss open and tall men in lab coats would pin her down. No answer from the messenger. She would have to do this on her own. Her eyes scanned the computer screen and landed on the words SERENA HILL STAGE SIX. Below was a subject history and a moving graph showing Serena’s brain patterns. Her eyes then found the radiation beam key. She tapped on the key and a separate window opened up, displaying its functions. She searched for an off key or something, but all she saw was complicated digital jargon. She decided to take her chances and pressed the first button her fingers could find, then looked up to see what happened. The circular radiation beam pointed robotically down over Serena and unleashed a yellow ray of light that shimmered across her body.
“No! No! That is not what I wanted!”
Serena began to tremble violently in her seat. In panic, she pressed another button and the chamber began rotating again, but this time it didn’t stop and with every rotation, the tube unleashed another rush of cold helium into the air. The computer didn’t seem to like this because it flashed the words, REDUCE HELIUM INTAKE.
“Well I can’t damn well reduce the helium if you will not cooperate!”
She pressed the same button as before and the mechanical radiation beam lifted back onto the roof and shut off, followed by a vibrating surge of power in the room. She pressed a key that said HOLDING RELEASE and instantly, the metal clasps around Serena’s hands and legs opened up and the girl shot up in spasms, her eyes drowned in tears.
“Dear God! How does one open this thing?!”
She scrolled through the endless keys, as Serena fell off the platform and collapsed on the ground, still connected to the headgear. The wires shot out from her head, keeping her propped against the platform in an awkward position. Charlotte pressed a button labeled CHAMBER FUNC.1 and the glass door slid open. Almost tripping over her heels, Charlotte ran as fast as she could into the chamber and kneeled down next to Serena, who clawed at the floor frantically, her legs kicking the platform behind her.
“There, there,” said Charlotte, not knowing what to do.
With a pale face, Serena pulled off the headgear and one by one yanked out every wire from the suction pads on her forehead, then collapsed with defeat. She opened her parched lips and spoke.
“A-avalon and back,” she said, her voice shot. “It’s…just a bedtime story. N-no such thing as m-monsters.”
Charlotte wrapped her arms around the girl and stroked her cheek with the back of her hand. Her face was ice cold. In fact, the chamber was freezing. She wrapped her shawl tightly around the two of them and rocked Serena in her arms like she were a child.
“You poor thing,” said Charlotte, looking around the room frantically. “We need to figure out how to get you out of here without anyone—.”
“H-her vitals are strong,” interjected Serena with her eyes closed. “Making primary incision.”
The poor girl was somewhere else, lost in God knows where. Looking at her up close, Charlotte could see she was once a much more beautiful girl. She had a small nose and wide pretty eyes. Her mouth was long and perfectly formed. Behind the paleness was a hidden beauty. She rubbed what was once probably a bed of lush black hair that matched her thick eyelashes. No doubt they shaved her head for this tormenting procedure.
“What in God’s name have they done to you?”
Charlotte got on her feet and struggled to help the girl up. She was a tall one.
“Avalon,” whispered Serena again, her green eyes visible now. They were indeed beautiful.
“You’ll tell me all about Avalon once we get out of here. Come now, on your feet. Up!”
“Avalon is where the sand dances in the wind. Pure soil and midnight sunsets. The stars rejoice when the Sons of Avalon march upon the Elysium Fields.”
“Sounds like a vacation. Work with me, dear.”
Charlotte tugged at her arm, but Serena pulled away and was able to lift herself on her own. She swayed side to side in an intoxicated hypnosis. She was no doubt filled with numerous sedatives and drugs. For the first time, Serena looked straight at her, tilted her head and said, “You have kind eyes.”
She stepped back, as if stepping onto an invisible moving platform, and lifted her arms out beside her. Charlotte just watched, entranced by her mystery. She moved her little hands around beside her, feeling the air, swatting it as if there was an invisible fog at her sides. Charlotte’s mouth dropped as she witnessed Serena’s irises turn into gleaming silver that spread across her entire eyeballs. With arms pointing out beside her, Serena rolled her head back as her silver eyes glistened against the blue light of the chamber.
“Time to go now,” she said.
The air grew into an arctic cold and Serena vanished into the blue air, leaving behind her a trail of visible energy that instantly faded into oblivion. Charlotte remained motionless in the chamber, watching the vacant air where seconds before, Serena stood.
“This job just got a lot more interesting.”
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