Sheer darkness.
I was inside the auditorium.
I stood silent for a short time while my eyes became focused to the gloom. No one stepped forward so I assumed I had to find my own seat. I glanced up at the huge screen and saw an array of unfocused images of people laughing on a beach and drinking a new soft fizzy soda unimaginatively called 'Cool Up.' I had obviously arrived just in time for the advertisements. As my eyes slowly focused inside the auditorium, I was slightly surprised how barren it was. The first five or six lines were completely empty and then the next few rows were only occupied by a solitary body dotted here and there. My eyes were drawn to one sad lonely figure with their knees crunched up tearing into a box of chocolates and discarding the colourful wrappings on the floor. At the top I could see a nest of strangers all huddled together. They obviously had plumped for the best viewing seats in the house. I strode up the aisle being slightly careful not to catch the eye of anyone or make a noise and slithered into an empty row. Once I claimed my seat I immediately stood again, wiped away a pile of popcorn from the arm rest, took off my scarf and coat and sat back down peering up at the screen.
The soda commercial had ended and we were now being treated to a cheap advertisement from a local curry house informing us their prawn madras was the best from Bombay. This caused a few people to laugh with one even shouting some obscenity. I just smiled to myself. I had eaten there I think. I recognized the chintz red tablecloths and overbearing wallpaper. Commercials over.
It was time for the main feature.
Quiet please.
By now I had become slightly restless and ill at ease. It had taken me a while to get comfortable in my seat and looking up at the screen realized night had fallen and we were all watching vacant black and white streets of London. A young man was walking the paths alone against a backdrop of incidental orchestral music. A cortège of young, laughing motorcyclists then appeared from nowhere and broke the stillness. There was a familiarity of everything I was watching but I couldn’t quite work it out. The loud motorbike crew disappeared and it was back to the solitary walker with photographic shots of an empty shop, a public tavern and a tall block of flats. This certainly wasn’t what was advertised in the cinema shop window. This was sixties city living.
Revisited.
The scene shifted again.
We were now travelling in the back of a Routemaster passing through London streets. It all looked oddly familiar and I began piece by piece to mentally list recognizable sights, the Albert Hall, Barkers, Kensington High Street. The bus soon halted somewhere in Park Lane and the young man proceeded to walk down a road to a house.
I began to feel puzzled. Confused.
My heart rushed.
But this was my house, my house that I had lived in. The house that I had wrote about.
Could it really be the same?
The camera closed in on two windows before photographing an enormous bed which was covered with a turquoise blue satin spread, high with an assortment of dolls and teddy bears. Giggling could be heard in the background but the people were never seen. The camera pulled back to reveal the young man standing by the window dressed head to toe in leather peering through a pair of binoculars down to the street where the motorcyclists who have appeared previously in the film came roaring past. His face was slightly distorted. His features not revealed. I stirred uneasily in my chair. It was all too familiar. A bedroom door opened and a scantily dressed woman entered and threw herself on the bed. 'Oh, Mickey,' she whispered.
I knew how the story would end. The leather man was Mickey, he was part of the motorcycle gang whose ringleader was known as Mont, a frightful young man who had an acne scared face and hair slicked back with grease. He would be after Jill, the dance teacher, the woman on the bed, and Mickey was protecting her. Or was it love, can’t remember. But before I could recall, the camera picked up on the woman rushing to the window shrieking loudly. The motorcycle gang came back and parked their machines. The shrieking continued. 'It’s gonna happen,' muttered Mickey.
There was no doubt about it. This wasn’t the Edwardian stately home drama I had paid for and was expecting. For whatever reason I had ended up watching the wrong film. But this wasn’t just any wrong film. It was my film.
The film about my book.
My book. My story.
I quickly scanned the auditorium to see if anyone else had been mystified by the appearance of this picture but it appeared no one was bothered. One sad lonely woman was silently peeling back wrapper after wrapper of boiled sweets while a couple sat three rows down in front of me were heavily involved with each other and therefore not remotely interested in what the main presentation was. There didn’t seem to be any pronounced enthusiasm for the antics on screen, although a few of the lewd jokes made and one scene where Jill’s breasts were unexpectedly exposed caused a few guffaws but that was about it. Two youths shouted out a few obscene words as they dangled their legs over the chairs in the front of them and smoked endlessly in insolently defiance of the illuminated 'No Smoking' sign. I did figure out one person who seemed to be immersed in the film. He looked like a tramp, sat all alone on the edge surrounded by six or seven plastic supermarket carrier bags staring intently up at the screen whilst clutching a plastic cup of something, but a few moments later the cup had fallen to the ground and the old man started snoring.
I turned back to the screen once more. The motorcyclists were on the move again and there were intermittent flashbacks to various occupiers of this house.
The bird lady who lived in the top floor who would spend her days looking at old photographs and reminiscing about her time in New York. The young artiste who lived on the floor below and would pay his rent by selling portraits and entertaining.
A young author-in-waiting, a student, a nobody. Was that me?
The cyclists were filmed racing each other on the highway, vaulting over ridges in the road with such violence and abandon it was like they all appeared to take flight and just stop there. An illusion I suspect.
I started to fidget again. The seats were so uncomfortable but I also wanted to see if the audience were reacting more. The tramp was still asleep this time all curled up on two seats, the young couple were still actively involved with each other and the lonely boiled sweet eating lady was still eating sweets.
Nothing.
There was no reaction from anyone. To them all the film represented were bright lights and noise coming from one end of the room. Plainly, it wasn’t just the wrong film for me. It was now with utmost sheer loathing that I viewed this film. This wasn’t my house, my story, my words. This was an adaptation of a story that wasn’t mine. Cruelly twisted. This was a film that somehow squeezed away all narrative and concentrated on the visual. This wasn’t how I remembered it. These people deserved their words to be spoken. Instead we were subjected to the motorcyclists all huddled together in some grotty café all drinking Coca-Cola in bottles against a backdrop of rock n roll music. Enough was enough. I couldn’t sit through another moment of this. An error had been made, perhaps my fault, perhaps not, but this wasn’t the main feature I had paid to see. I began to think about what to say to the fat fingered ticket booth girl as I requested a refund on my ticket. I quickly collected my coat and scarf feeling inside each pocket for the ticket stub which no doubt would be needed. And as I was about to leave, I felt an urge to take one final look up at the screen. It was almost as if I was being ordered to. One final look before walking off. And it was then my sensations changed.
Bright light.
Noise.
A face.
Something visible on the screen had finally made me stare. In the moments leading up to me deciding to leave, the films focus had changed. Perhaps it was what they call a 'flashback scene' but we got to see the motorcyclists by the seaside all huddled together in a shelter eavesdropping on conversations from two young women. The camera changed and angled upwards focusing on Mickeys chin, his lips, cheekbones and eyes until it panned out and we finally got to see the full version complete with a cascade of black tight curls and broad shoulders. I hadn’t envisaged him as broad before. His hands were resting upon his leather clad knees in a somewhat childlike manner. The scene changed almost immediately to another café where the naive hands were seen clasped around a glass salt shaker and a ketchup container in the shape of an over sized tomato. There was some meaningless dialogue between everyone present which I didn’t really bother with. It sounded like a lot of mumbling with the odd swear word thrown in for good measure. It was at this point that he stood up and peered over the booth in the direction of whoever was sat there.
He stood just smiling as once again the camera panned back revealing the full picture of Mickey.
It was his face that grabbed my attention. It belonged to a young person, possibly early twenties maybe slightly younger I couldn’t quite tell. His black curls were cropped and he had sparkling blue eyes with long black eye lashes, a straight nose, chiselled cheekbones and immaculate straight white teeth.
I couldn’t help but be astonished by this young male’s beauty. The facial features appeared correct, almost precision like and I needed time to register than fully. So, I sat back down on another seat this time clutching my coat and scarf. The beauty of his face was both banal and extreme. Banal, in that he appeared to be like every other young actor is these days. Cropped, white teeth, muscular features, tight jawline, the perfect Anglo-American dream. A certain array of 'cuteness' which I found rather mysterious at the very least. There was also the privileged tranquil perfection of late twentieth century adolescence. Sparkling eyes, perfect teeth, a healthy tan, a sculptured body. I had never in my life consumed so much details but then never in my life had I witnessed such a specimen. But despite all this I had missed the emotion on his face. It appeared empty, depth-less, decorative and enchanting. It would be cruel in any society to destroy it. The face held an innocent quality. There before my eyes was a face that would probably break a few hearts during its lifetime. Still sitting, still clutching my coat and scarf and this time without paying any attention to whoever was in the auditorium, I sat back in the chair and gazed up at the screen adoringly and in bemusement at the youth. I found myself in a slightly awkward situation. Part of me wanted to leave the cinema while another part of me wanted to see this film through and see what escapes Mickey would get up to. It may be true that I wrote the original book but the film-makers had obviously changed their way at adapting what words I had put together many years ago. I decided I would leave presently but found myself once more in the posture of which I found myself at ease, that of being alone in my thoughts and appreciation of a youthful actor I had not set my eyes on before. I was therefore determined to savour the moment for as long as possible. But the moment was all too brief and soon faded. Mickey wasted no time in starting a fight with some of the other motorcyclists. It was staged almost beautifully, like a dance routine, perfected to an incidental music backing. Some parts were in slow motion, others fast paced with other café participants screaming and rushing out wildly. The music came to a
screeching halt as Mickey stood in the middle of the café surrounded by six members of the gang. Tension.
Who would strike first?
The music picked up again.
Mickey picked up another man by the collar on his coat, hoisted him out of his seat and displaying the wanton energy of a nightclub bouncer, threw him across the floor. Then with a half-witted grin on his face picked up the over sized tomato sauce bottle and squirted ketchup all over him from the roots of his blonde dyed hair to the black soles of his boots. Someone in the audience must have been watching as there was a sudden loud haw-haw which seemed to have woken up everyone else in the auditorium. At the visual sight of his victim lying on the floor covered in red sauce and his friends all standing staring around Mickey walked out of the café. The camera fell upon one lonely girl as she uttered, 'my hero.' I sat for a while longer, reluctant to depart and yet just as reluctant to stay where I was. But for some reason I wanted to see his face again. I wanted to see Mickeys smirk smile and his eyes. I couldn’t give a reason it was just what I wanted. But it soon became plain to see that the actor was no longer returning anytime soon. I got to my feet again and gathered up my belongings, aware that for some reason I felt a faint hot flush rising in my cheek bones as I strode out of the auditorium.
Once back in the foyer the notion of an immediate refund became less pressing than it had been a short time ago. The box office creature was still sat. Still eating. Still reading. If truth be told I was actually afraid of confronting her. Sat in her small glass booth she resembled a funfair attraction that would only come into life once you had inserted a coin and then they would soon whirl into some kind of frenzy action. I had other things whirling around in my mind. For some reason, someone had sent me a gift of beauty, an award that I would not have received or seen if I had not entered the building. But on the other hand I was confused and wished to satisfy my curiosity as to why I had seen advertisements for one film and sat through another. On the way out, I passed the small glass advertising booth which had the photographs I had studied before entering. Everything was just as I imagined. There was even a small stickered notice placed above saying 'This Week!' I was still none the wiser and was about to re-enter the foyer and ask the plump box office girl but then I saw on the opposite side was another glass cabinet case with
a different set of photographs. And there he was, the actor, the artiste who was Mickey. There was a collection of about eight photographs, all different stills from the film and inscribed on each photograph was the title of the film I had just walked out of. Part of me didn’t want to read it.
Home.
An amended title of my book. My film. My story.
The answer to my confusion was a simple one. The cinema had two auditoriums, two screens, two programmes. I smiled to myself that I hadn’t worked this out until now. The rain had stopped and the streets were remarkably quiet. I glanced one more time of the photographic still of Mickey, smiled to myself then turned up the collar of my overcoat and proceeded to walk home. The evening had become unexpectedly chilly and so I tied a robust knot in my scarf and tucked the two ends neatly inside my coat. A new season was beginning.