Abandoned

Part 16 of the Griffin series.  This follows Annus Mirabilis.

When Helena died, Griffin had to be the organizer, the stoic presence.  He hugged and shook hands, he looked into the eyes of her tearful friends and relatives.  He stood in the front, closed casket of her mere feet away, minister speaking at the front, and he knew people were focused on him, how was he feeling, what could he be feeling.  There were flowers and pictures of her and he couldn’t look.  The minister had glasses and a white beard and was dressed in white and brown and he focused on him when he was looking up.  His name, and loving husband, were how he was mentioned, fourteen times to his count.  Richard sat next to him, head tilted, still.

During the reception that followed, Griffin would sneak outside and smoke, everyone's condolences becoming too much.  He found a spot that was away from other huddled smokers so he could be alone.  One of these times, he looked up into a crystal blue sky and whispered, you’re gone, just like that.  He feels a sprinkle of rain, impossible it seemed since there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.  He closed his eyes, inhaled and exhaled smoke, felt the brief spray of drops touch his skin, imagined her standing before him.

***

When Richard died, swarms of young people attended his funeral.  Griffin was taken aback by the presence, that his son, only 23, had amassed this number of people who would attend his funeral.  They were well behaved, respectfully mournful, some even introduced themselves to him, offered condolences.  Outside, it was blustery, rainy.  The mourners scurried in wet, hair blown wild.

Griffin sat in the front row, was angry.  My son died alone at night on a city street, the gunman still at large.  Where were all you people then?  If any one of you were there, you so-called friends, he might still be alive.  He was prepared to eulogize.  He thought he might add, thank you for attending what is the end of my family.  Thank you for making me feel even more alone.  But he didn’t.

His previous film, Abandoned, had a funeral, had a son dying.  But there were other sons, others to carry the burden, the family name.  He had become some sort of prognosticator with his films.  If he filmed something, it would happen, and none of it was good.  He caught something on television mentioning Richard’s death and they couldn’t leave Black Thursday out of it.  The next anniversary was six weeks away and would they hit for a third time.

This filmmaking—it’s a curse, he thought, just before the funeral.  It’s killing people, my own loved ones included.  But it's all I know.  It's how I interpret the world.

***

When Griffin died, he had no funeral.  He specifically stated that he wanted no service or funeral but that he should be cremated and his ashes interred in a simple unmarked plot.  He had a written note that he wanted released upon his death but, in the weeks before his death, he destroyed it, burning it in the kitchen sink.

In a park near the city’s center, people gathered slowly for a vigil.  They were silent, a field of candles, gathering fathers and mothers and sons and daughters and people who looked like they held any of those distinctions.  People kept gathering.  It became an unstoppable force.  Screenings of his films occurred, there and other places around the world, including his last work, which had been released only two weeks prior to his death and had confounded everyone, and now, it was said, it was time to view his work as a whole, time to discuss the canon of Griffin.

Days stretched into weeks and people still gathered, though their numbers were fewer and fewer each day.  A handful kept the flame and then, one day, when the season’s coldest wind comes through, they too dispersed, their attentions moving elsewhere, their memories holding on only so long.  No one will write, this is the true last goodbye, as late year rain sweeps the city, cleansing it once again.

Annus Mirabilis

Part 15 of the Griffin series.  It follows Gravity's Rainbow.

Almost one year after Helena’s death, Griffin meets another woman. She is nice, intelligent, beautiful. They have good conversation at dinner. They can laugh about things. After the fourth date, he’s home, in the dark, crying. They don’t see each other anymore. Griffin removes his mind the idea of new relationships, instead focuses on filmmaking.

***

Griffin’s fifteenth film, Annus Mirabilis, focuses on a physicist who’s writing a book about Albert Einstein. The physicist, whose own scientific career has stalled as he’s focused on teaching, finds himself rejuvenated as he’s writing the book. He becomes happier, and his relationship with his wife improves. The film alternates between present day and the early twentieth century, one of the rare times Griffin has gone deeply into the past.

***

I have accepted, he wrote, I have come to terms. She can’t be replaced. For a reason she departed. I must go on. I am working on Annus Mirabilis, he said, translated as the “year of miracles,” and I declare that this, for me, will be a year of miracles. I will lift myself from darkness. I’m keeping on. I have my whole life ahead of me.

***

The year of miracles came to an abrupt halt on October 14, at 10:14 p.m., when he heard and felt the explosion, windows rattling, the shrieks of people, car alarms and police sirens, then, for a moment, silence, a winter storm at full grip. Then the chaos returned. Richard finds him, says, what the hell? Ambulances and fire engines filled the night. Outside flashing reds and blues everywhere. He turned on the tv. A courtroom drama interrupted by live news feed. Raging fires. Witnesses crying and screaming. All signs of terrorism. Throughout the city and the country, tvs are turned on. They don’t go off.

***

Griffin postpones all filming activities after the explosion. The city grinds to a halt. Richard spends most of his time holed up in his room. When he emerges, he’s a funeral mourner, dressed in black, head hanging down. They don’t talk about the explosion, even as they watch the coverage together. On the phone, Griffin’s assistant says, odd about the date and time, isn’t it? Until that point, it hadn’t occurred to him. Later, though, he thinks, how lost in his head was he that couldn’t put these things together?

***

Griffin has regular dreams of Helena. She’s lying in her coffin, her body and appearance as it was when he first met her, and she’s wearing a red dress. They’re at the table together having breakfast but she’s a skeleton. He wakes up in the middle of the night and the television is on. Construction lights illuminating the rubble.

***

The police had reached the conclusion that two buildings had been rigged with explosives. After three days, 141 confirmed dead, with another 178 missing, and 206 injured. Griffin, watching television, has an Einstein quote pop up in his head: imagination is more important than knowledge.

***

Four days in, the actor playing Einstein phones Griffin, asks if he can stop by. The man has the Einstein hair he’s been growing, has the eyes and the nose that are almost carbon copy. He’s been in fourteen films, but this is the first with Griffin. They have coffee. They talk. In times like these, the actor says, people need to get together, be community. After a few hours, he leaves. Griffin doesn’t want him to. The apartment becomes closed doors once he’s gone.

***

Six days after the attack, the police reveal that they’ve received an anonymous letter. It indicates that a group calling itself Black Thursday has claimed responsibility for the attack. Griffin, taken aback, drops the glass of water he’s holding. The commentators mention Griffin and his film from eight years before. No, he says, to the television, to the apartment’s closed doors, to himself. They are now talking about him. They are now talking about his films. They say the words inspiration, copycats. They mention an increase in confirmed dead. He closes his eyes. He can hear his heart. He can feel himself shaking. The phone rings.

***

That night, Griffin is writing in his journal. Scribbling furiously, burning through pages, his words losing cohesion. Richard emerges from his room, dark circles under his eyes, his hair madness. The tv is off because Griffin is now the topic of discussion. Griffin writes in his journal, I should’ve become a watchmaker, then shuts it.

Jokerman

This story is the 12th part of the Griffin filmmaker series. It follows Black Thursday.

Nine hundred fourteen years after its release, the last existing copy of Griffin’s twelfth film, Jokerman, was destroyed. A fire swept through an underground archive long ago abandoned. At that time, the world had been chaos for decades. The world’s remaining people knew nothing of film, only the frenzy of immediate survival. If one could compare that reality’s view with the current one, it would look as if the future world had been fitted with a yellow lens, blue sky burned into ash.

***

For Griffin, the immediate aftermath of Black Thursday was awards. A catalog list of nominations for the picture, his lead actor, technical aspects. The major ones didn’t come through, though he picked up some more obscure ones. They sat in boxes, turned on their sides on tables. Helena, one day, cleared a living room shelf, lined them up so they could be seen.

***

The prevailing film criticism became that Jokerman had to be viewed and considered in conjunction with Black Thursday, the work that inextricably became associated with Griffin. One film scholar said that the two films lined up like yin and yang. Consensus formed that, in both films, Griffin takes the pacing to beyond that typical of an arthouse film, yet still maintains his artistic sensibilities. Jokerman, in its time, was overlooked, did not receive the acclaim or eventual notoriety that its predecessor did.

***

The film’s main character, never named, was a raging lunatic. Here you had not the beleaguered aging detective of Black Thursday being chronicled but a raging lunatic. How does the lunatic, borderline homicidal, exist. Here was Henrick’s existential dilemma turned upside down. Rational thinking in a solitary world was gone. The nameless protagonist searches not for resolution.

***

Forty years after the film’s release, the government launched war on its people. San Francisco became the first casualty. The government proclaimed that a sizable revolutionary force had taken root in that city. Chinatown and Market District were assaulted in swift order. The military imposed martial law, extended it to other cities where protests formed. There were massive arrests. Universities were closed. Hundreds were killed.

***

During the filming of Jokerman, Griffin one day sees Richard, now 13, in a moment of adulthood. The boy was sitting on the couch, still, filling out a Sudoku grid. The boy’s usual boundless energy was sedated, teenage anarchy funneled through numbers. Richard looked up, caught his father gazing at him, and forced a quick smile.

***

Twenty years after San Francisco, you had to know secret knocks. You had to be on lists. You had to know people. Film became more than entertainment. It was a silent whisper, subtle nods in public, political statements held deep within the mind. There were people who insisted the world was being bleached of color, regressing to black and white.

***

Thirty years after filming Jokerman, Griffin would be working on his twenty-fifth and final film. The film was completely non-narrative, the most experimental of his canon, and he knew viewers and critics would be scratching their heads. Time-lapse photography. No actors or dialogue. Footage from cameras stationed throughout the city. He had words prepared. There is order in this though you don’t see it. You’ll be tempted to call this documentary or pure cinema but don’t. I want to show the world that’s unconscious of film, the swirling chaos that is itself order. He died, though, before he could say these words.

Black Thursday

This story is the 11th part of the Griffin filmmaker series. It follows The Street Near and Far.

1
The actor Griffin hired to play Henrick had the worn, existential face he sought. Gray hair like withered grass, facial wrinkles of stone, stark eyes making him look surprised he was still alive. I know he’s the one, he said, because this is the future me, the final Griffin before death.

2
9:15 p.m. Henrick lived for October 14. There was nothing else. Forced retirement, no family, declining health. The terrorist group Black Thursday struck on this day, though not every year, at precisely 10:14 p.m. His bedroom wall had a map from his police days. Twenty-seven pushpins—fourteen black, for where he thought they would strike, thirteen red, for where they actually had. He drew lines connecting the thirteen pushpins, seeking a pattern. There wasn’t one.

3
Griffin wrote in his notes, Black Thursday will be my most fast-paced film. Then he told Helena. Then he told his crew and cast. Pacing, pacing, pacing. The present time will cover fifty-nine minutes, set on October 14, leading up to when the group would strike, with flashbacks covering thirty years.

4
9:26 p.m. Henrick hails a cab. It had been eight years since they last struck but he had a hunch. His old partner Murphy used to tell him, you’re on 24/7, always keep attuned for information, everything’s connected. Murphy, a seasoned crocodile face, who smoked as much as he breathed. Henrick told the driver, to Melvin’s, the name he kept hearing recently. Melvin’s was Montana range cattle, violin-sized lobsters, 1985 port. Henrick now operated without police resources. Only a gun strapped to his leg, the thoughts in his head.

5
Griffin wanted all questions answered before they were asked. Why action? I wanted something new, broadening appeal. Why terrorism? It’s a force beyond our control, one we can only respond to. Why the color red? Next question. Why Henrick? Yes, why Henrick—the most critical question.

6
9:43 p.m. Henrick exits the cab near Melvin’s. Seared beef fills the air. People walking the streets unconcerned, fearless. I’ll stand here, he thinks, I’ll watch. He’s near the door, hears piano from within as the door opens, mixed with conversational hum. The valet sizes him up. Henrick forces a smile at him.

7
Alone, late at night, Griffin pondered Henrick. How far would I go, he thought, how obsessed would I become? The room felt like it was shrinking, enclosing him. Would he abandon Helena, Richard, live obsessed? No, I couldn’t, he thought. The search becomes Henrick’s life. I’m more. Griffin closed his eyes. Silence, darkness—too much.

8
Flashbacks. Car bombs, nerve gas, snipers. “Black Thursday” cards scattered at sites. No threats, no demands, no suspects. Police sweeping the city, breaking down doors, turning up nothing. New mayors, new police commissioners, the feds intervene. Nothing. Henrick moved through thirty years, pushing away friends, romantic interests. He often thought, this time, I’m so close.

9
One afternoon Helena was reading the script, asked, have you counted the dead? He looked at her sitting on the couch, shook his head, unsure. The number of people killed by the terrorists, she said. I’m estimating around 2,000, adding the numbers you give, taking estimates of those unmentioned. Glasses on her face, pencil in her hand, script before her. He shrugged his shoulders. Someone might be curious, she said. I never added up the dead, he thought, is this wrong?

10
9:58 p.m. Henrick finishes his coffee. Across the street he sees a white light in a darkened window. His heart accelerates. Maybe it was just street lights playing tricks. But then it appears again. He hears Murphy’s voice—this is what you live for. He runs across the street. The building door locked, windows dark. He tugs at the handle. The knob is cold, the door immoveable. He looks up at the window, neck cracking as he tilts his head, sees nothing. No police cars nearby. He’s alone. He taps the street level windows with his hand. Plexiglas.

11
During filming, Griffin wasn’t sure if Henrick should live or die. He went back and forth, Henrick’s fate in limbo, until he realized, in a sense, he’s been dead a long time.

12
10:04 p.m. Henrick draws his gun, now stands at the building’s rear. He’s winded, hand trembling, legs in pain. The alley smells of leaves, dogs. He pats the wall, finds the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. He steps back, looks up at the windows, stares. After a few seconds, he sees the light again, and a silhouette. Someone’s up there. Here it is.

13
Griffin pondered, how many more films do I have in me? Five, ten? He thought, Helena, how many? But he never asked her.

14
10:12 p.m. Henrick returns to outside Melvin’s, chases people away by waving his gun.

Get out of here, he yells. Sniper! In the window!

People scream, run, drop flat. Three men in suits exit Melvin’s. Henrick shoves them back inside. Two guys approaching from his right ignore him. He shouts, Black Thursday, Black Thursday. They turn and run.

He thinks he hears someone say, dinner at Melvin’s.

He looks across the street, sees the white light again. He panics, shoots at the window. Glass shatters. People scream. He looks at his watch. The time, he thinks, the time.

15
Griffin determined the film must end with an extreme close-up of Henrick. No sound of gunfire. Just silence, fade in of city sounds, voices. Roll credits.

16
10:14 p.m. In the distance, amateur fireworks mark the time. The street in front of Melvin’s is frozen. Henrick looks up at the broken window, sees an outline of a head, two gloved hands, a red dot of light. Here’s thirty years. In one moment. Now. Finally.

I got you! Henrick screams. Drop the gun, drop it!

From above, cards rain down, hitting him in the head, tapping his gun, landing at his feet. Someone above, he thinks.

On his chest, he sees a steady red dot. He’s frozen, unable to move. I’ve found them is all he can think. The dot crawls up his chest, until he can’t see it anymore.

10: The Street Near and Far

This story is the 10th part of the Griffin filmmaker series. It follows Finley.

During filming of his tenth film The Street Near and Far, Griffin visited his old childhood neighborhood. It had become boarded-up houses and storefronts, growing weeds scaling crumbling stone structures, trash and debris scattered on the cracked sidewalks. His childhood home—long ago replaced by apartment buildings.

He named the film after the main street of his neighborhood, where everything was—restaurants, supermarket, clothing stores. His mother called it the street near and far. He never knew why, never heard anyone else call it that. It was uphill from home, a leg-toughening trek up a steep incline. It was close, maybe half a mile, so it was near, though it felt far on hot summer afternoons or snowy winter days. He’d meant to ask his mother why when she was alive.

The street also had a theater, long closed, though the marquee still existed, its lights long dead. Spray-painted cedar boards where the entrance used to be. Liquor bottles and fast food trash and a decaying rat in the entryway. Cracks to the box office window, papers and broken glass just inside the semi-circle opening where you’d buy your ticket. He hadn’t seen it in years, and knew it had been long ago since it had closed, but still he was shocked by its condition.

He hadn’t planned to go inside but decided to after seeing the place. The front provided no possibilities so he walked around the block to the back. Past abandoned stores, one structure hollowed by fire, pawn shops sealed by metal gates, an Asian eatery that smelled like garbage. The back alley was crumbling asphalt, potholes, backyards of ramshackle houses. He found the backdoor, rusted and wrapped in chains. He looked up and down the street, thought briefly, he has family at home, what’s he doing, then pushed the door until it creaked open.

The film’s premise was that the protagonist discovers an old theater where films he sees are replays of his life. He goes during the day and often he’s the only person there. He tries to enter the projection room to see what’s happening there but he can’t. He finds people working at the theater—box office cashier, snack stand attendant, ticket taker, even the manager—tries convincing them of what he’s seeing but they think he’s crazy. When he finally someone comes and watches, the film is what’s on the marquee, not his past. In the movie, the protagonist never learns what was up but realizes his real life is stuck in the past and he can’t keep living there.

The inside smelled musty. Griffin found debris, dust, darkness. Outside light filtered through cracks, revealing dusty seats and floors, screen scarred by cuts, the ceiling sagging in places. The interior mostly untouched. He couldn’t believe it. He sat down in the front row, the seat creaking and crunching. He looked at the battered blank screen. The memories flowed. When he was a child, feet barely touching the floor, he sat eating candy and popcorn, his parents flanking both sides, flickering images reflecting off their glasses. Older, during summer vacation and days off school, he came with friends, crouching down in darkness between shows to stay for the next show. Then he came with dates. Then, as a student of film, as the films became smaller run, less popular arthouse-type fare. Then he was gone.

Griffin sat there, eyes closed, until he heard the door creaking. Someone else coming in. He jumped, felt his heart race, heard someone calling. Anybody in here? An older man’s voice. He answered back. Just me, I mean, yes. The man was standing just inside, below the Exit sign. He was short, hunched shoulders.

I saw the chain off. It’s never like that.

I sort of…I used to come here when I was a kid. Grew up close to here. Just wanted to see what it looked like.

I ain’t gonna give you grief. The man’s head moved, scanning the theater. Man, this place—loved this place. Clean it up, add a new screen, she’d be up and running.

The old man sat down in the aisle opposite Griffin.

Been walking this alley for years. Never been in here since it closed.

You know the first movie I saw here, said Griffin. Pinocchio. I was five. Loved Jiminy Cricket.

Don’t know if it was my first but I remember Strangers on a Train. That Robert Walker—man, was he something. Packed house. Everyone riveted.

This whole neighborhood, said Griffin. The center of my life growing up. Things just change so much.

Used to be bustling, way back when. Momma’d say, let’s go to the street far and near, see a movie, get lunch.

Wait— Griffin heard the words; his blood became ice crystals. What’d you just say?

You mean, the street far and near?

Yeah. Where’d you hear that? My mother always called it, the street near and far. How’d you—why’s it called that?

You know, I never knew. Far and near. Near and far. Weird.

The two sat silent for awhile. Griffin closed his eyes, listened to the man breathing. The guy didn’t know who Griffin but that wasn’t unusual.

Nothing like the old days, the man said. Nothing like watching movies in these old palaces.

Do you think if we sat here long enough, we’d start seeing movies. Griffin kept his eyes closed, recalled the buttered popcorn smell, the sound of the rolling projector. Maybe the old times would return like we never left.

The old man laughed then coughed. Griffin thought about Helena. Would he tell her about this? Soon, he would leave, return to her. Now, though, his eyes closed, time passing and, not sure if the old man was still there, he saw the colors of old filling this place, images flickering on screen. He was young again, his parents alive next to him. His childhood house still alive, freshly painted and landscaped, warm, humming, waiting. The dead street outside restored to fresh color, alive with footsteps and mesmerized children, decorated with streamers and banners, declaring it the street near and far.

9: Finley

This story is the 9th part of the Griffin filmmaker series. It follows Eight by Eight.

Griffin writes down the facts of Finley, the character of the eponymous film, the director’s ninth. Growing up, trouble in school—bad grades, poor attendance, disciplinary problems—then trouble with the law, parents divorcing when he was a teen. The actor needs to have a thin, wiry physique, an almost jagged line presence that wears black well. This is character driven, he writes, this is shot in black and white. Strip it down from the excess of Eight by Eight. Make people forget that one ever happened.

Helena sees his notes, says, you ever considered starring yourself? You could be like Orson Welles. What do you mean, he asked. This character you’ve sketched—it’s you. Why don’t you add in precocious son, charming and lovely wife who hangs over your shoulder, gives critical bits of advice even when not asked?

She walks away and he’s left with white sheet of paper, the thin line scribble of his handwriting. He thinks then writes, wife meets untimely end, car accident, terminal illness. Later that night, he’ll wake up, Helena motionless by his side, her breath the sparsest of whistles, go to his desk, cross that line out. A cheap shot, humor too dark.

Six years later, when she does die from a terminal illness, he’ll have forgotten about this scribble that existed for a handful of hours. Months after she dies, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and remember, think, was I that callous, flick on a light in the early morning hours, comb through his papers. He’ll see the words crossed out, letters dangling on a long black line. I’m sorry, he’ll say, then he’ll cry, he’ll turn off the white light, he’ll lie awake in darkness.

The day after he writes those crossed-out words, he’s at his desk, thinking, visualizing. She’s right: Finley is me. I’ll fast forward. I’ll make him me, older. He calls his casting director, tells her, look for thin, wiry, line-like. Find me in fifteen years. Also, a female, to be his wife. Charming and lovely. Stark eyes that see deep.

The film plays in his mind before a shot is ever taken. The world returned to black and white. A man that will be him, alone. Right now, this man is a hollow, two-dimensional shell, unrealized, no brain, muscles, blood, soul, organs. A scant line of existence.

8: Eight by Eight

This story is the 8th part of the Griffin filmmaker series. It follows Overshadow.

1
In his eighth film Eight by Eight Griffin thought he could play with the number, have a little fun, go tongue in cheek. Eight guys on a caper, told in eight vignettes, the number eight keeps appearing in the film. For lack of better wording, the critics ate him alive. Griffin generally knew when he had a stinker and was caught off guard with this film, thinking it would be well received. He got halfway through the reviews he had in front of him and stopped reading. No good words. Say something nice to me, he asked his wife, breaking an evening’s silence. She lifted her head, said, you’re brilliant, an amazing husband and father.

2
He calls the paper looking for the critic and keeps getting the run around. This is Griffin, he tells the person on the phone, the director of Overshadow. I just want to ask him a question, is all. No, I’m not mad at him. Well, I’d have preferred a four star review, not two and a half, sure—look, he used a particular phrase, and I’m just curious to know what he meant. Is that a new policy, not taking questions, I mean, come on, this is a paper, he’s a member of the press, he skewers my film for all the world—okay, skewers, that’s a bit too much, sounds bitter. Well, to be honest, I think he missed the point of what I was doing, maybe he was having a rough day or something. Hello? Sure, you can transfer me to voice mail.

3
He didn’t sit still. He stared off into space. He moped. Helena watched him all day, suspicious of his moods, knew he was holding something back, but didn’t say anything. At night, they climbed into bed, he slipping between the covers like he’s afraid of disturbing the world, and she said, okay, what the hell’s wrong? What do you mean? All day, you’re sulking, you’re contemplating, you can’t mask it. He closed his eyes, sat upright, exhaled deeply. Do you think Forever East glorifies cult leaders? That’s what this guy said. I tried to play it evenhanded, be dispassionate if you will— You’re walking around like you’re in mourning, she said, laughing, and you’re worried about what someone thinks of your movie. Well, yeah— You’ve been doing this long enough, she said, toughen up, for crying out loud. She switched off her nightstand light.

4
In Revolution/Illusion, Griffin puts his political chops on the line, the article reads, and he decidedly shows himself as a rank amateur, not even a convincing illusionist like the main character in his work. Sitting in his office, windows open, hears the sounds of the city: car alarms, slamming doors, roaring engines, unintelligible chirping of people talking. He drops the article on the desk in front of him. His eyes closed, he hears his wife’s voice: don’t listen, they’re envious, they don’t understand. He opens his eyes. Outside, the city still, tall buildings drawn against bluest sky, swirls of white cloud that twist, disintegrate.

5
Helena, tired and body feeling broken, rested on the couch, her form a curved line. On the table before her were newspapers, clippings, magazines holding opinions on Sodium Pentothal. Her husband down the hall, the baby cries growing softer as he hushes, as the creaking wood of the rocker provides a music. At first she held the materials, intent on weeding out the bad reviews. I can protect, she thought, I can ease. But the accumulation of words became too much. The thoughts not so black and white, good and bad. She placed them down, closed her eyes, felt the firm pull of sleep.

6
There’s a moment he knew he used to feel just before opening the pages, just before eyes hit letters of text. A tingle on skin, heart rate increasing, stomach floating like helium balloon. That moment before the thoughts were real, just before he’d been elevated or dropped, a nonexistent pause in white space. Did he lose it after Negative, Richard’s birth? The title will show his name, the film, perhaps a quick description. It’s the possibility, the anything. Then the words, the flood of judgment.

7
Griffin clipped this passage from a review: “In Raging Life, Griffin’s second film, the director adds to the promise revealed in his debut two years previous. Cinematographic virtuosity meets a compelling, straightforward tale that is timeless in its existential nature. A mixture of arthouse sentiments and the best of Hollywood heart-tugging sentimentality—Griffin is clearly on his way to defining his own chapter in cinema.” He framed it, hung it near the front door of his apartment. The first time Helena came to his apartment, she stopped to look at it. This is affirming, he said, standing to her left, this is what lifts my head during difficult times. She nodded, smiled.

8
He’s at the festival the morning his first film, The Thirst, debuts. Head light, body achy from impending illness. Swirls of people move like blown shrapnel. Booths selling programs and t-shirts. The smells of grilling meats. Competing background music from speakers and live instruments. Why am I here, he thinks, this is a mistake. He thinks about the film’s opening sequence. A glass of water, the ripples disturbing the liquid, shot in black and white. They’re going to kill me. He looks in front of him, sees that, in the flow of people, a temporary empty space has emerged around him. He stops, looks around, then closes his eyes. I’m here, he thinks, I’m here, just before the space is obliterated.

7: Overshadow

This story is the 7th part of the Griffin filmmaker series. It follows Forever East.


0
As a teenager Richard told his parents he recalled certain memories from his early years. In his crib, shadows in red light in his room. That’s the nightlight you used to have, his mom told him, a red caterpillar. I remember some instances of waking up and crying and being afraid and no one there. We always came to get you, his dad told him, if you woke up crying. Do you remember me or your mother rocking you to sleep, balancing you on our chests while we were half-asleep ourselves? No, he said, that’s something I don’t recall. His parents looked at each other and smiled.

4
At a film festival the boy sat under the chair as he watched his father answer questions at the long table. Boring, he thought, sitting here watching people talk. It’s a festival, his dad had told him. There’s fun things to do, people come to watch new movies, hear people talk about movies. Son, people are coming here to see daddy’s new movie. Is there anything I’d want to see, he asked. Well, tomorrow, there’s animation—cartoons. Sort of like what you watch at home. Tomorrow is so far away, he thought, using the top of his head to lift the chair slightly.

5
He’s walking down the street alongside his mother. She’s tall to him and he looked up at her hair and there’s light shining through the strands at the top. People were walking around them, toward them, in many different directions. He said things to her, mom, can we get a hot dog, mom, can we get ice cream, but she shakes her head no. Sometimes he felt like it’s just the two of them, when dad was off making movies. A white puff of cloud blocked the sunlight. Her hair was no longer illuminated. She looked down—in her eyes he saw worry. Later that day, he drew this picture with crayons, made rain come from the clouds.

6
Richard, his dad said, the film’s called Overshadow. Home at the dinner table, dad with notepad at his side, scribbling illegible cursive in between bites. Mom’s there, attentive, looking back and forth at the two boys in her family, smiling when Richard looks at her. The film’s about a particular man’s quest to, well, it’s for adults really, see, it’s a man, and there’s his father who was a big advertising executive and he’s seen only in flashbacks, and he’s trying to compete, well, see, there’s, um, Helena, can you explain it to the boy? It’s about a man trying to be better than his father, she said, her words a burst of sound, her face a grin looking at dad. A slurp of milk, an oops as a small shower of macaroni and cheese hits the floor. Why would someone want to do that, the boy asked. Mom looked at dad and they both tilted their heads, popped their mouths open. They didn’t answer.

18
Two weeks after his mother died, he confronted his father. The man, aging years in months it seemed to him, sat at the table surrounded by stacks of paper. You would think you’d have more to say, Richard said, standing on the other side of the table, arms crossed. Mom’s dead and it’s like you don’t give a crap, it’s just business as usual. His father closed his eyes, gently removed his glasses and placed them unfolded on the table before him. He looked up at him. Richard, we don’t need this right now, I know you’re upset. We, Richard said, we, since when are we, we? You are Griffin, the film director, and it’s you, you and your stupid movies. Son, you don’t understand. You don’t get it. I cried before she died, I cry at night by myself, I cry. When you fall in love and marry and have a family and the person you’re with is taken from you, get back to me and let me know just how painful it is. By instinct his dad looked to his left, the place where mom used to sit, where she reassured, filled in the blanks, was peacemaker and wise voice, and froze at the emptiness. Richard watched him do this then walked away, back to his room, shutting the door with a sedate click.

23
He’s walking home from a friend’s house, a trip he’s made dozens of times before. Slight buzz wearing off. The smell of baking bread from a round the clock bakery then cooking oil and ginger and seafood from an Asian eatery. He feels his stomach rumble, making him hungry, decides to wait until home for food. Passes a nightclub bustling with crew cuts and black dresses, an oblivious intoxicated couple almost stumbling into him. Then, a street of blank stare windows, silence. He could hear his father’s voice: this city, its moods, it takes your breath away. Inhales. He thinks, the man’s been through enough. Fueled by alcohol, he thinks as he’s thought before, tomorrow, I’ll tell him many things. I’m sorry for my teenage years. I know it’s been difficult with mom dying, with this terrorist group, and the media onslaught. I’m ready to go back to college. I’m ready to follow in your footsteps. A shadow crosses his pathway. A shot cracks the night. He’s thinking, mom, we miss you, before he realizes that this shot was his, that he’s lying on the ground.

6: Forever East

This story is the 6th part of the Griffin filmmaker series. It follows Revolution/Illusion.

The format of this story is taken from Lydia Davis's short story, "Jury Duty," appearing in her collection, Samuel Johnson Is Indignant, and subsequently in The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis.

Q:
A: The pleasure’s mine.

Q:
A: You know, it thrills me to no end. We’ve been married six years, my son Richard is four and he’s already his own little person saying he wants to make movies like dad, and, well, life is good. I’m doing what I want making films and I got all that and life is good. Helena, I say she’s an angel to me and that’s no lie. There can’t be many women who could put up with being married to me.

Q:
A: Sure. Forever East follows the world of a fictional cult leader, from his point of view. The place is a compound on the eastern coast of Australia, the world headquarters for this fictional cult, and we follow the life of the cult leader in pseudo-documentary style, using handheld cameras and grainy film shots when we’re alone with him, and using more standard methods when there are others in the scene, to pull the viewer back into a standard film narrative.

Q:
A: Generally, so far, through six films now, we’ve been able to send only what we have to for filming. We sent a crew of about nine to eastern Australia to film scenery. We did pretty much the same thing with the previous film, sending a crew to the tropics. With the magic of film, the digital technology we have at hand, we can have actors film their scenes here at the studio downtown and effortlessly put them into the scene. Fifteen years ago, such a thing would’ve been looked down, not considered “art.” Now it makes the most sense. I can’t afford to send 75 people across the world for six weeks.

Q:
A: Cheating? No, hardly. I’m making use of modern film techniques to produce what I hope is considered art. I’m not going for mindless thrills, big box office turnouts. The latter, if it coincided with what I was doing—well, how could I complain?

Q:
A I love this city. I could be based somewhere else, or have no place to call home, but I’m here and I’m proud. It’s been good to me and my family and I’m eager to give back where I can. For me, this is my paradise.

Q:
A: I can’t control what the awards people do. I do what I do and if they want to acknowledge me, that’s fantastic. If not, well, I’ll be working on another film. Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. I think it would be nice if some of my crew got some recognition. They work hard. They have the eye for bringing these things to life.

Q:
A: I can only hope I’m influential in a good way. We all run the risk of some kook taking what we’re doing too far. Look at Salinger and Kubrick. Do I think I’ll be a target? I can’t answer that. My best reply is, I won’t be so important.

Q:
A: No, I don’t view my films as political, but represent human issues, things people have struggled with, are doing so now, and will struggle with in the future. Fifty years ago, ideas of oppression, fighting the system, the pain we inflict on others wouldn’t have been considered “political.” Being oppressed has been an issue for thousands of years. How is that political? I’ll reiterate what I always say: I’m not political.

Q:
A: Well, people who criticize me in that fashion are just out to score points, make a name for themselves, get people worked up to get themselves money or political power. I’ll admit, filmmaker is an easy target for such a thing. I’ve heard Griffin and pretentious in the same sentence before. Part of the territory.

Q:
A: I’ll admit I’m not familiar with that criticism or that person. I guess I should be flattered. If someone’s that adamantly against me, I must be doing something right. Beats apathy.

Q:
A: Okay, perhaps I should be familiar with that person and what he’s espousing. I have to say, it’s a bit of blindside to throw that out, the film not even released a week, saying it supports cults and their leaders. Look, this fictional cult leader, like the rest of us, is a flawed human. He has good characteristics and downright bad ones. I thought we were going to talk more about content, more about process? Didn’t realize I’d be playing defense.

Q:
A: I’m not answering that question. It’s ridiculous, an invasion of privacy, Just a minute ago, you were pondering my agenda; well, I ask, what’s yours?

Q:
A: Look, I apologize if I came off as abrasive.  Helena says I have a tendency--

Q:
A: No one said anything about wanting softball questions, about this being easy. Challenge me. Just don’t throw garbage at me. I don’t want to be part of some political scrum.

Q:
A: Sorry. We’re done. Goodbye.

5: Revolution/Illusion

This story is the 5th part of the Griffin filmmaker series.  It follows Sodium Pentothal.

Dear Prof. J——

For some time, I’ve tried reaching you through the contact info listed on your course syllabus but haven’t been successful. I searched and found this mailing address for you. I hope it’s still good and you get this. I hope you haven’t completely disappeared.

If you don’t remember me, I’m the woman who sat in the back row of your “Early 21st Century Film Cinematography” class last fall. I had blond hair with pink streaks and was probably the only one in the class not a film major (bearded John, who sat next to me, once said I should’ve been a slasher-film casualty). I probably always looked sleepy but that’s because I worked nights at a 24-hour café. On final exam day, I was the last one to finish. I hadn’t really studied for that exam (that B- was a miracle!) because I was burned out by that point and really all I could think about was school ending, the holidays, and just chilling.

Anyway, that last day we ran into each other outside as you were leaving. We went for some drinks after. I knew something was not right with you that day. You weren’t the person I’d seen all semester. But you loosened up with some drinks (dark beers to my vodka tonics). The day was cold and windy and snow was blowing sideways. We talked film, your passion, and poetry, mine. Around seven o’clock, I had to go. I could tell you were a little tipsy. Then you told me about what happened earlier that day, about how the board members interrogated you, questioned your political opinions, the films you taught, even suggested you led a questionable lifestyle, then fired you. You were upset. I thought you were going to cry. I really had to go. Now I regret that I left you like that. It seems you’ve disappeared and things have gotten worse and you should’ve just come with me that night.

Just before the spring semester began, I wrote the board as well as sent an editorial to the campus paper protesting your termination. The editors there had heard about your firing (and the other firings) and were eager to make a statement. Then, a few days later, they called, left a message saying they couldn’t print my letter. I was aghast, and even more so when I picked up the paper and found zero talk about it. It was like nothing had ever happened.

It didn’t end there. After the spring semester, I’d attained enough credits for graduation. Except I applied to graduate and discovered I had a case of academic dishonesty pending against me. News to me! They refused to disclose the nature of the case, claiming “underlying circumstances.” They’d inform me when they were ready to proceed. It’s August and I’ve heard nothing. I’ve recently discovered there are 47 others at the college who are in similar academic limbo. Then, last week, I heard about what happened in San Francisco, as I’m sure you did. I immediately thought of you. There are stories of people being detained. There are soldiers patrolling streets. Things have been building for some time and I’ve just noticed. I’m scared.

On that last day I meant to tell you that your class moved me. That sounds dumb to say, but after your lectures on director Griffin and his fifth film, Revolution/Illusion, I felt a sense of films suddenly making sense. Just last week, I re-watched the film and cried. I still have notes from your lecture: “The night landscapes of fog, grainy darkness were otherworldly, the opposite of daylight settings, and this is where the action happened, this is where the island revolutionaries plot. The magician, he’s trying to stay out of the fray but they’re circling, they’re pulling him in. In the end, he finds common cause with the revolutionaries. He can’t help it.” That film is fifty years old and it speaks to me. I’ve watched some of his other films and they too resonate with current events.

This summer, I’ve been distraught. I’ve spent daytime hours in my room, writing poems. Now I realize how dumb that’s been. I’m 26. It doesn’t appear I’m getting a college degree. My parents at first told me to buck up and walk proud but they stopped saying that. They just let me sulk now. I think they realize the direction things have gone. If you see me now, you might not recognize me. I’ve shaved my head and have eliminated the pink. My father says I now look like a female soldier from one of those old sci-fi movies. He tells me to be careful whenever I go somewhere.

This coming Saturday night, there’s a meeting at X—. Writers, poets, artists, filmmakers, concerned citizens. We’re about 20 strong. We formed as a group to protest these abuses, what happened in California, the rise of new tyranny. If you get this, know you’re welcome to attend. They know about you. They would want to see you.  If you don't attend, please, just let me know you're okay.

I’ll end here saying, I can’t help but think of the magician in Revolution/Illusion. He’s a relic from the past, like you said, wearing a red velvet coat with tails, black hat, and handlebar mustache. He performs old tricks like pulling rabbits from hats, sawing cocktail waitresses in half, hanging upside down and escaping from straitjackets. I can’t help but see you as him—you, the instructor before real live students, teaching about the old films. It sounds dumb but it feels like we’re all stepping through that fourth wall now. We’re all characters from films. We’ve turned a dark corner and there’s no going back.

B——

14: Gravity's Rainbow

Note: This story is part 14 of the Griffin filmmaker series (untitled so far). It follows Super 16 (part 13).   

A screaming comes across the sky. The words appear in silence on black screen, signaling the film’s start. Fade in, fade out, then a siren. The film does not focus on World War II like the novel but is a retelling set in present times. It’s not supposed to be faithful to the novel, Griffin said in interviews. That would be impossible.

***

One morning, Cam, one of Griffin’s assistants, walks into his office, says to the director, I’ve been trying to read this book but I don’t get it. Who told you to read it, Griffin said. Please, Cam, don’t try to comprehend it—I don’t want you to comprehend the book. No one understands the book. Just understand the script, my notes, my directions. But I bought copies for the entire crew. So, you’ve single-handedly revived the book and paper industries while sinking that of the doorstops and also risking mass brain cramps.

***

Griffin kept getting the prank calls, even after multiple phone number changes. He stopped answering the phone. Don’t answer the phone, he told his staff. He’s at home one day. Richard walks in, huffing and puffing, throws down a pile of books and clothes and food items he’d been carrying. Dad, why didn’t you answer the phone. I’ve been trying to call. He looks the boy up and down. Growing, rising to his peak, becoming a man, all of it undeterred by his mother’s death.

***

The movie drags on, filmmaking as glacial formation. Some cast and crew quit, are replaced, others leave, others go. The budget is metaphysics. Griffin sits at his desk most days until his eyes close, head dropping down to his arms, brain sliding into theta wave. He could go home but doesn’t. The movie premieres and he doesn’t attend. The reviews pour in and he doesn’t read them.

***

Helena went through chemo and surgery and more chemo and more surgery. Somewhat advanced stage, but beatable, said her doctor. She fought but grew weak, a frail skeleton by the end. He held her bony fingers. Pleads of I don’t want to die disappeared, as she accepted her fate. Stay close to Richard, were her last words. She hung on for awhile in silence. Just looks from her sunken eyes, shaking of her skeletal head, air shapes she drew with her slight fingers.

***

The thing was, he said years later when he decided to open up, I needed to get back into film making, and this was what was there. It wasn’t ready but I was a wreck and didn’t care. Really, it’s unfilmable. I was at a point where I didn’t want to make sense.

***

They’d spent time and effort CG’ing Grigori Octopus only to cut it. There the octopus was watching films. There it was being conditioned to attack on cue. It doesn’t work, he said. It’s laughable, stupid to see on film. So, the procedure, surgical removal, erasing all traces. For days after, the cast wore black armbands with an octopus likeness. Someone left Griffin a plate of octopus sushi. A few years ago, he thought, I could’ve laughed.

***

The actor playing Slothrop and the actress playing Katje have a real-life tryst during filming. They’re making out offset between shots, and once, both were missing for about 20 minutes, holding up filming a scene, eventually returning with mussed up hair, shirttails out of pants, begging to be too obvious. What actress Katje didn’t know is that actor Slothrop went through women like changing socks. For him, there were no boomerangs; he followed a straight line, leaving the previous woman in dust. So, he’d moved on, to Margherita. But Katje hadn’t. There were still romantic scenes to film. Katje would break in tears. Slothrop would be stone faced. Margherita would be perpetually applying makeup, seated legs uncrossed. We’ll do this over and over, Griffin said, we’ll do it until it’s right.

***

Three months before Helena died, Griffin said to her, don’t die on me. Please. You can’t die on me. He looked her in the face. She was becoming less and less but still she had definition, her face had not succumbed fully to the death mask of cancer. Whereas months before, when she said she will fight, she’s not going to die, now she said things like, you’ll keep on after me, you still have your whole life ahead of you. He thought but didn’t say to her, it’s all downhill after you. I’ll be in free fall. I’ll never be the same. His hair once dark and full now turned gray, falling out. Strong bones like Roman arches now victims of decay, reduction. A liver once living in peace now caught in open warfare. And damn those cigarettes, now back to one pack a day.

***

Somewhere a phone rings. It’s picked up. Static. Crackling. No one there. Another one. Nothing. The frequency building. One day at 10:14 p.m., the city phone grid was overwhelmed by a barrage of simultaneous prank phone calls. All over town, phones ringing, hellos, then nothing back, hanging up. The system crashed, was offline for an hour. Griffin heard about this, said, yeah, they’ve been doing it to me for years. A reporter on tv asks, what kind of mischief is this. The police commissioner says, we will find the culprits. Then the calls stopped.

***

The film ends with a missile bearing down on a major city. The point of view becomes the eyes of the missile, the shot becoming increasingly shaky, the sounds of velocity and movement moving from searing to white noise hiss. The missile breaks through clouds. It’s set to unleash hell. There’s silence and fade to black. Words appear on the screen. Now everybody—

4: Sodium Pentothal

This story is the 4th part of the Griffin filmmaker series, with the first 3 stories being The Thirst, Raging Life, and Negative.  For now, the order is restored.

Seventy nine days before Griffin’s fourth film, Sodium Pentothal, was released, the director’s son Richard was born. In a brief written statement, Griffin described the birth as exhilarating, a true miracle beyond description, as if there were the arc of a permanent, perfect rainbow standing in my vision. My beautiful wife Helena, an angel if there ever was one, is understandably exhausted but fine and recovering well from the procedure.

This statement was issued as a press release and distributed to the relevant media outlets; it was retracted and re-released to correct two misspelled words and the date of Richard’s birth.

***

In a private journal not made public until eleven years after his death, Griffin wrote about his son’s birth. He described himself in those weeks that followed as tired with his sense of time and place being altered from the new baby, lack of sleep, and caring for his wife. I wake up in the middle of the night, he wrote, baby crying for a feeding, and in that initial moment, can’t be sure if I’m in my apartment, the hospital, or some unfamiliar location.

The film I’m working on, he continued, is about the truth, pursuing it by force in contemporary society and how we twist ourselves to conform what we see as truth, ultimately leading to its perversion. But in moments with my child, my family, there is truth, pure and unforced. A profound delirium, this is, this new life, this miniature person. Easily, he wrote, I could float away and disappear.

In the initial release of Griffin’s journals, there were several mistakes. Sodium Pentothal was initially listed as his fifth film. In alternating places, the year in the birth entries was off by one year. The word “Pentothal” was misspelled as “Pentathal” in five instances. In later pressings, these mistakes were rectified. In the original journals, Griffin made various spelling and grammatical errors, as he wrote by hand and did not edit his entries. Before initial publication, the journal entries were edited, cleaning up such errors.

***

In moments not written about, Griffin would be holding his infant son as they rocked in a chair, their forms illuminated by the faint red glow of a caterpillar nightlight. Helena would wake and stand outside her son’s room and watch father clutching son in a still rocker. Her abdomen itching, her Caesarean scar pink and raised, the topography of motherhood.

The scene she witnessed was a replay of hazy moments from the hospital, the baby a symptom of physics, appearing in different arms every time she woke. She watched this scene, smiling as tired eyes weighed down, and felt a brief rush, thought that maybe she could do it all again.

In later years, Helena would revise her memory. She’d remember the red light as being brighter, illuminating the room more, and the caterpillar being more realistic than cartoonish. The child would be smaller, resting higher up on his father’s chest. Though she loved her son, she’d have no recollection of wanting to birth another but instead would wonder how she made it through with Richard, how she smiled when her brain and muscles were fatigued, how she said she felt happy when she wanted to run away, disappear.

13: Super 16

This story is part of the Griffin filmmaker series (untitled so far) but is out of order. The first 3 stories are The Thirst,  Raging Life,  and Negative.  This story is part 13, taking place 16 years after the third story. I’m envisioning this series having 25 stories total. So, why the jump from 3 to 13? Well, I hit a creative stumbling block writing story 4, so I decided to hit fast forward to rejuvenate myself.

Static
It was the time when weird phone calls began. Griffin answered the phone; on the other end, a static crunch, and an antique sounding multi-level click. Somehow, he told his assistant, whoever’s calling is making it sound like they’re using some sort of phone technology from 50 years ago. Like they’re calling me from the past. Do they say anything, the assistant asked. No, he said. This person calls, stays on for about five seconds, and hangs up. In his studio he lit a cigarette. An on-again, off-again relationship that was once again in motion. Sunlight the color of faded newspaper filtered through the window. A puff of smoke drifted away, went from circle to rounded triangle to nothing. He stared at the phone on his desk, waited for it to do something.

Film School
Griffin’s thirteenth film, Super 16, was shot, as its name suggests, using 16 mm film. The goal, Griffin indicated, was to create the grainy view of indie filmmaking similar to his early short films. The locations move from desert to city to traveling carnival. The hero flees—from mistakes he’s made, from his father’s homicidal ancestry that’s made him a pariah. Griffin spent weeks upon weeks tracking down appropriate cameras, all of them vintage, and stores of film. Members of his crew sighed, blustered, shook their heads. All this technology and here we are. He gave lectures on film perforation, aspect ratio, and camera aperture. During a break, Griffin overheard someone mumble, I hadn’t realized I’d signed up for film school again. Film school, Griffin whispered, then chuckled.

Juvenile Crime
One afternoon Richard was brought home by a police officer. The lobby buzzer, a stern male voice, distorted, way too close to the intercom. He and his friends were rooting through dumpsters behind an electronics store. While the officer was there, Richard kept his eyes frozen downward. Griffin listened to the officer. The boy gets a warning this time; I leave it to you, sir, to discipline him; I don’t want to see him again. Silence after the officer left, then, Dad, I’m sorry, we were just looking for old stuff. They junk old and broken music players. Amplifiers, speakers, even turntables. It’s trash to them, Dad, why should they care. Griffin nodded his head, placed his right hand on the boy’s shoulder, knew it was wrong to sympathize with his plight.

Stereoscope
Griffin came home from filming one day, saw Helena sitting on the couch wearing his antique pocket stereoscope. She looked up, her face like that of a Terry Gilliam film scientist. This is fascinating, she said, holding up the stack of cards with side-by-side images. Various city skylines in black and white, the series of long-gone carousels, human male and female anatomical sketches revealing muscles, nervous system, internal organs. This one, she said, holding a card in the air, is just creepy. He sat next to Helena, put on the stereoscope and looked at the images until they became one. It was the card of a dead guy in a coffin, dressed in top hat and tails, hands clasped together and pennies on his eyes, his face dusty and lips broken and riddled with lines. This is how we all end, he remembered thinking the first time he saw it. Helena’s hand touched his arm. He looked up, his eyes blurry for two seconds until regaining focus.

Prank Call
Griffin jumped out of bed, sleep interrupted by a ringing phone, and stumbled to the living room. He picked up the phone—crackling, what he thought was someone inhaling, then the phone clicking in silence. He bit his lower lip, gently placed the phone on its cradle. He dreamt he was in western ghost town, hot air laden with crunchy dust, and walked into an abandoned saloon that had a billiards table. In the living room, he turned, saw his son Richard sitting on the couch in the dark, which made him jump. Why does someone call like that, Richard asked. Griffin, his heart racing, sat down on the couch. He heard a floorboard creak, knew Helena was behind them, sleepy, head leaning against the wall.

Vintage Underwear
The common thread of Super 16 reviews was that the film was a throwback to earlier Griffin, reflecting the art house sensibility of The Thirst and Raging Life, with the expert cinematographic hand of Negative, and a contrast to more recent fast-paced bombs-and-guns fare such as Black Thursday and Jokerman. In an interview, he said that, yes, with this film, he intended to get back to basics, live in the past to rediscover the old fun. He joked he told everyone to think old thoughts, put on your vintage underwear, and tell tales by candlelight to your friends and family. You’re smoking again, someone pointed out. Yes, he said, inspecting a lit cigarette at arm’s length. It’s all part of the experience.

Family History
About six months after Super 16’s release, Helena went to the doctor because of pelvic pain. I’m worried, she told Griffin the night before, I have a grandmother and an aunt who… It’ll be fine, he told her, rubbing her shoulders from behind, though she sat slumped in her chair. Let me cheer us up, Griffin said, disappearing into a closet. Here, let’s film home movies! He held up a Arriflex 16SR camera, leftover artifact from Super 16, its bulky body like car parts, the front a square abyss. She laughed, put her hands up. This is Helena, he said, the woman I love, mother of my son, still lovely after all these years, and she needs to lighten up. Say something for posterity, he said, holding the camera insistent. She lowered her hands, looked straight into the camera holding back laughter, said, turn the damn thing off. Which he did. The next day he was at home while she was gone. Writing but not really. He looked at the phone. Ring, why don’t you? Then it did.

3: Negative

1
The first review Griffin read of his third film Negative described the film as turgid, obtuse, a depressing departure from the refreshing if tentative artistic optimism demonstrated in director Griffin’s first two films. It was an early summer morning and Griffin was sitting by the window in his apartment kitchen, the sky outside blue, the sun already bleaching the world, a neat effect that resembled the kind he’d used in the film. Helena, in the bedroom, sound asleep, spent from her morning of sickness, her new daily routine. The film’s lush cinematography of tropic then arctic landscapes, the review continued, is wasted in a whisper-thin wrapping of a story. Ignore these things, he remembered Helena saying even as his heart sank, they’re jealous when they say bad things. He loved her, deeply and significantly he told friends, but he had a moment when he couldn’t remember what her face looked like. His mind scrambled, piecing together image fragments in his head, producing unknown composite faces. A plane flew overhead, rattling the windows, shaking him from guilt. She’s two now, he thought. We’ll soon be three. He folded the newspaper, tossed it to the floor, then lifted himself from the chair, walked into the bedroom and stood by her side, watching her breathe.

2
The last day of edits, Griffin was in the studio, late at night, alone. An electric crackle, and there went the power. He looked outside and the entire neighborhood was in darkness. A new silence, punctured by dogs barking, the frustrated yelling one-word obscenities, the sliding of windows opening to let in fresh air. He imagined it being intentional, someone preventing him from finishing his film. Then he pondered it being more than that. An act of violence, terror. The soundless moments were waiting to be filled by anything: explosions, gunfire, screams of victims. At his desk his hands touched a pad of paper. The idea: he captured it with words, tore the sheet from the pad. It would be filed with others, undeveloped photos waiting for infusions of color. After ten minutes the power returned, life blasting back to comfortable hum. The scene he was working on, the two lovers stranded in tundra, left to exposure, numbing death. The schemes of whites fresh, blinding. He called Helena. After a handful of rings she answered. He stumbled, said, are you there. She laughed, the line crackling with static.

3
He talked to his actress, said, consider you’re freezing to death, this is the endgame of torrid forbidden love. Her hair frosted with fake snow, skin painted pale with hints of blue, her lips purplish-blue tones hinting at hypothermia. Your lover will stop you from paradoxical undressing, he said, and hold your hands together as if being bound. She was young, talented, never killed on film before. She had lived in Mexico, Louisiana, southern California. Remember, the affair starts in tropical conditions, he said, the pinks and sea foams of some island-like paradise. Everything declines from there. Warmness slips to cold. Colors drained from life. The film wore her down, a chisel re-sculpting her soul. Every day he watched her retreat to her trailer. More a ghost each time. How much of you had been erased? She stepped into his dreams during filming. Luminescent, frozen, lost.

4
About three weeks after filming began, he married Helena. They had planned it four months before, after being together less than one year. She organized the hurried details—the officiant, the church, the reception. He worked on his film—casting, funding, locations. An ice sculpture, he said, would be fitting. So they got two dolphins entwined, locked in embrace and shooting from water. He paid one of his cameramen to film everything in documentary style. Her dress was shimmering blue, a flowing gown that looked like cascading water, her feet obscured, looking as if she were floating on air. At one point, he lifted a glass, toasted her, this woman he’d finally found. Here the cameraman went for a close-up, as Griffin’s words filled the soundtrack. She bit her bottom lip, her face frozen waiting on each word. The woman writing my dreams, he said. My all, my reason. Her eyes blinked more with each phrase, an intensifying beat the cameraman caught in extreme close-up, the moment jarring as her eyes shifted to look straight into the lens.

5
The day before filming began, Griffin was sick in bed. A night of fever, vomiting, sweating. Horrible dreams. One where Helena was nonexistent—he searched for her, walked the streets showing people her photograph, met by shrugs and headshakes. She’s gone, he recalled feeling. At one point the photograph burned in his hand. Her features went black. Her skeleton showed. He dropped the photo. In the distance he thought he saw a flash of red, her turning a corner. He ran across a road of crunching glass and jagged brick. But there was no one. An alley stretched infinite, an effect like mirror on mirror. Later that morning, he was lying in bed, shivering, his vision grainy. Helena was standing by his bed, her figure in silhouette. Are you there, he said, and she grabbed his hand, held onto it, life slowly returning to the world.

2: Raging Life

The thing about the film Raging Life, I told J, is it must be viewed in an actual theater, since it had been banned and was nonexistent in other formats. He raised his eyebrows, tilted his head. I have a friend who can get us the film reel, I said, still intact, hidden in his secret vault beneath an old church. There’s a theater in the district we can use; I can jimmy the lock, there’s a working projector inside and even an old popcorn machine though the smell would be risky.

J had been watching Griffin’s films, saying he’d seen numbers 1, 6, 10, and 20. All good films, though all accessible safe-list works, a list designed for our purity, our safety, our mental well-being. Raging Life, number 2, hardly fit such things. The protagonist, M, his world resembling our current one, is dissatisfied, disenchanted, disillusioned. Ultimately, he’s diseased, dying. He takes action, fights back. Cinematography of lush skies, open fields. He commits acts of rebellion. There are, as the ruling party would describe, acts of danger, acts of contamination.

J drank black coffee at my kitchen table. The morning sun broke through gray, warmed the unheated kitchen. He’s about 20 years younger, his face youthful, unwrinkled. Like me, he’d resisted joining the underground. Instead, he followed my creed of it being better to rebel through films and literature, learning about banned works few have experienced. Not sitting in dank, dripping basements with others dressed in matching uniforms, reciting stale chants, dreaming of open street warfare.

There were others like us, I’d told him, sneaking into old libraries and catacombs to find artistic gold. The everyday whisperers, the nondescript noncomformists. We don’t use phones, computers or the mail; they’ve been compromised.

Let’s do it, he said, sipping his coffee. I nodded, stood, looked to the street through my window. Military in black sporting face-shielded helmets—walking casually, rifles slung over shoulders. I remember a time, I began speaking, but trailed off, as I often did.

As we walked, the day becoming brighter, the air stiff with cold, I told J, 2 is a good place to start. I recommended 5, 11, and 23, definitely listed, though I don’t know if copies exist. As for those I hadn’t watched, I’d heard about 25, his last, purportedly shot entirely by surveillance cameras, and 4, but neither’s listed either way. Remember, talk in numbers, I said, because you don’t know who’s listening. We walked, silent, heads down approaching face-shielded soldiers, clouds and buildings reflecting in their mirrored shields, their heads swiveling as we passed. Don’t look at them, I’d told J before, don’t be entranced by the reflections in their faces.

What more do you know about Griffin, he asked. Resisting the urge to grab his shoulders, shake him silly, I said, let’s not speak names, there are ears. We walked past a high-rise apartment building. I could feel eyes peeking through blinds, those who exist as nothing, the fearful who give tyranny its power.

He had one son who died young at age 23, I said. His wife died fairly young also, not even 50 (much like my own life—my wife died young, and I lived many years alone after, though I never had children). He gained notoriety when film 11 inspired a terrorist group that, mimicking film events, attacked annually on October 14. After that, he went into seclusion, shunning festivals, screenings, interviews.

There were more details, but I didn’t want to reveal everything too soon. There were other stories I wanted to tell. The rumors of mass killings. My three-week imprisonment. Why I don’t look into the mirror. The way the world once was.

We reached my contact’s place. We walked inside the entryway door. Inside were four mailboxes and buzzers, the area smelling of cat urine. The concrete, chipped and cracked, had black paint covering graffiti, the marks of the disorganized discontent. A tempting form of violence, easy release. There were days I wanted to throw stones, hurl fire until they killed me. I rang the buzzer four times, the agreed-upon secret code. He descended the steps, blanket covering his shoulders, said, we meet in the church’s back alley doorway at four, and turned around, climbed the stairs, a faint creak then door shutting.

Walking back, J said, so, what happens after I see film 2? How does it change my world, this air I breathe? What does it all add up to?

I’m not sure what you’re asking, I said, even as I felt dread, that now my friend was not who I wanted him to be. That he was soon to break off, go his own way, pursue his reality as he saw fit. A militant in a basement. The afraid who only peek through drawn curtains.

Okay, where is freedom in our world? What chance is there of changing things?

I had no answers. I said, I remember when, but trailed off. At the end of Raging Life, M is captured, thrown into a dark prison where he eventually dies from his ailments. Disheartening, sure, but, in a montage of silent acts of sedition, his tale is spread person to person. By folded note, by whisper, by cryptic texts in invisible ink. What these efforts become, though, is never revealed.

I didn’t tell J the world was a lonely place where most light had been extinguished. I hoped he’d stay for another six hours so we could sit in that movie theater, palace of bygone years, and watch the film, even if it’s our last. The wide screen before us, as we sat in darkness, moving images revealing a world reborn in color. When I was imprisoned, I sat in pitch black, stared at the wall, waited for movies that never came. During that time, I realized that the world now was more prison than art. With J’s company, I could pretend the world was again full of light, colorful vistas of life.