Gracias. Muchos. To Skip: I’m sorry, Skip—I think maybe I’m just out.
SKIP: Now you stop being silly!
CAPTAIN: This is going to be a very good thing, Madame. It will frighten the people, you see.
EMILY: And that’s good?
CAPTAIN: Oh yes . . . it’s when they are not frightened of the government is when they get in trouble. Of course, it would be even better if they were allowed to say whatever they want. Like in the States.
HENRI: Well that’s a surprise, coming from the police.
CAPTAIN: Oh, but is a very simple thing—if the troublemakers are allowed to speak they are much easier to catch.
His handheld intercom erupts. He holds it to his ear.
The General has arrived!
Captain rushes out.
HENRI: You may start a bloodbath in this country, sir, I hope you realize that.
SKIP: You are endangering this woman’s career! To Emily: This could move you into a whole new area. I mean just for starters, if you shot him against the view of those incredible mountains . . .
EMILY: You mean on the cross?
SKIP: Emily dear, you know I adore you. Have I ever steered you wrong? This is a door to possibly Hollywood. There’s never been anything remotely like this in the history of television.
EMILY:—And when are we talking about? For it to happen? Just out of curiosity.
SKIP: Toward sundown would be best, but it has to be today.
EMILY: Why?
SKIP: . . . Well, basically . . .
EMILY: Don’t tell me “basically,” just tell me why.
SKIP: Well, basically because the story is bound to jump the border and we’ll have CNN here and ABC and every goddam camera in Europe. So it has to be done today because we have an exclusive.
HENRI: I beg you both, let us discuss this rationally.
EMILY: My head is spinning.
SKIP: I share your feelings, believe me, but . . .
EMILY: . . . I mean there’s something deeply, deeply offensive, Skip.
HENRI: That’s the point precisely.
EMILY: Really. I think it like . . . disgusts me. Doesn’t it you?
SKIP: In a way, I suppose, but realistically, who am I to be disgusted? I mean . . .
Suddenly, the gigantic cross is raised, dominating the
stage. Emily, struck, raises her hand to silence Skip,
who turns to look as it rises to position while soldiers
observe to figure if it is the right height.
All right, dear, let’s parse this out head-on, okay? She is staring into space now, into herself. Sudden new idea. Showing it on the world screen could help put an end to it forever! Warming. Yes! That’s it! If I were moralistic I’d even say you have a duty to shoot this! Really. I mean that.
Soldiers take down the pole and start up a chainsaw
again, which stops their talk.The pole is sawed shorter.
In fact, it could end up a worldwide blow against capital punishment, which I know you are against as I passionately am. Please, dear, come here . . .
She doesn’t move.
Darling, please!
He goes upstage of the soldiers and the beams. Half
in a dream she reluctantly joins him and he holds
arms out.
Look at this!—if you shot from here, with that sky and the mountains . . .
EMILY: But, Skip, I’ve never in my life shot anything like . . . real—I do commercials!
SKIP: But your genius is that everything you shoot becomes real, darling—
EMILY: My genius is to make everything comfortably fake, Skip. No agency wants real. You want a fake-looking crucifixion?—call me.
SKIP: Dear, what you do is make real things look fake, and that makes them emotionally real, whereas . . .
EMILY: Stop. Just stop it, Skip. Please. I’m totally lost. All I know is that somebody actually dying in my lens would melt my eyeball.—I have to call New York . . .
She takes out cell phone.
SKIP: No, dear, please . . .
EMILY: I can’t call my mother?
SKIP: Your mother!—Of course. Handing her his cell phone. Use mine, charge it to us. And darling, please don’t feel . . .
EMILY, punching the numbers, yells, outraged, scared: Skip, I beg you do not use ordinary beseeching language to me, okay?! This is death we’re talking about!
She dials.
SKIP, suddenly turning on Henri: Sir, I appreciate who you are, but if you refuse to leave I will be forced to call the police!
HENRI: Sir, my family has been in this country since the Conquistadors.
SKIP: Really. Conquistadors named Schultz?
HENRI: Cortez had a German doctor.
SKIP, one-upped, growing desperate: You don’t say!
EMILY, in phone: Mother! Yes! Hello? To Skip: Now listen, I haven’t agreed to anything, okay?—Hello?
Captain enters, glancing about; Emily mouths a conversation
into the phone.
CAPTAIN: My excuses, please! General Barriaux is approaching below. I am to ask if there are any firearms . . . pistols, long knives, please to hand them to me. I am speaking English.
HENRI: Don’t bother, Captain . . . I’m sure they’re not armed.
CAPTAIN, salutes: Very good, sir! From Mister Schultz I accept this reassurance! You know, since I was a little child . . . when I was coughing . . . my mother always gave me . . .
HENRI: Will you stop that? Just stop it. This is a serious event, Captain!
Skip settles onto his shooting stick, takes out a magazine and affects to blithely work a crossword puzzle.
EMILY, in phone: . . . Mother, please! Listen a minute, will you? . . . It is, yes, it’s beautiful. And the birds, yes, they’re sensational. I saw a condor, twelve-foot wingspread, unbelievable, it can carry off a goat!—Listen, I left in such a hurry I forgot my cleaning woman doesn’t come today so could you go over and feed my cats? Thanks, dear, but just the one can for both, I mean don’t have pity, okay? What?
SKIP, to Henri: Sir, we are trying to work here . . . I’d be happy to meet somewhere later . . . tomorrow, perhaps . . .
EMILY, in phone:—Do I? Well I am nervous, they’ve just thrown a whole pail of garbage at me and I don’t know what to do with it. Well it turns out it’s a . . . well, a crucifixion. Some kind of Communist, I suppose. Not as far as I know—Louder. I said he’s not Jewish as far as I know!
SKIP, glancing up from his puzzle: But she mustn’t mention . . .
EMILY: But you mustn’t mention this to anybody, you understand? —Of course it’s a problem for me! I’d be on the next plane but I just signed for my new apartment and I was depending totally on this check.
SKIP: You’ll have walked twice in one year, darling—case closed.
EMILY: This’d be my second time I walked off a shoot . . . well the slaughter of the baby seals last year. So I’m a little scared.—And it’s also that I’m a little late.—Well, who wouldn’t be edgy! I mean I don’t know, do I want it or don’t I?—Well . . . to tell you the truth I’m not sure, it could have been Max Fleisher.—What marry?—I should marry Max Fleisher? I’m not sure it was him anyway.—Mother, please will you listen, dear; I have no interest in marrying anybody. —I profoundly don’t know why! Except I can’t imagine being with the same person the entire rest of my life.—But I do believe in people—it’s just myself I have doubts about.
The crew enters : Phil, cameraman; Sarah, soundwoman.
Got to run, don’t forget the cats and give Daddy a kiss for me. I’ll call tomorrow. ’Bye!
PHIL, sets camera on the ground: Skip. Good morning, director, what are we shooting?
SARAH: Emily, please could I use your cell phone, I’ve got to call New York.
EMILY: Is it all right, Skip?
SKIP: Why can’t you call from the hotel?
SARAH: Because it’s just after nine and they said I could get my pregnancy report after nine an
d I can’t wait.
EMILY: Sarah, really! Isn’t that fantastic!
SARAH, jumping up and down: Please!
EMILY, hands her the phone: Here! Can you say who the father is?
SARAH: Well, ah . . . actually, yes. My husband . . .
EMILY: You have a husband?
SARAH: Last Tuesday.
EMILY: How fantastic! Make your call!
Watches with unwilling envy as Sarah goes to a space
and calls.
PHIL: Listen, I’m trustworthy, can you tell me the secret?—what am I shooting?
EMILY, indicates the cross: That.
PHIL: What am I supposed to do with that?
EMILY: Well, nothing, until they nail a man to it.
Soldiers lower the cross to the ground and start attaching
a footrest . . . as . . .
PHIL: I always knew you were gutsy, but doesn’t this crowd insanity? You’re not serious, are you?
EMILY: I may not be your director in about ten minutes, Phil. To Skip: . . . Which reminds me, do you have a doctor?
SKIP: Oh god, you’re not feeling well?
EMILY: Not for me, for him!—You’ve really gone crazy, haven’t you . . .
SKIP: I am not at all crazy! . . . In all the thousands of paintings and the written accounts of the crucifixion scene I defy anyone to produce a single one that shows a doctor present! I’m sorry but we can’t be twisting the historical record! Great new idea. . . . And furthermore, I will not superimpose American mores on a dignified foreign people. The custom here is to crucify criminals, period! I am not about to condescend to these people with a foreign colonialist mentality!
EMILY: What about a hat?
SKIP: A hat?
EMILY: If I know mountains it’ll probably be a hundred degrees up here by noon.
SKIP: Yes, but a hat—is that the look we want?—on a cross with a hat? I mean we’re not here to make some kind of a comment . I defy anyone to find a painting where he’s wearing a . . .
EMILY: And what do you plan on giving him?
SKIP: Giving him . . . ?
EMILY: For the pain!
SKIP: If you’re talking light drugs, okay, but we can’t have him staggering up to the cross or something. Especially in like dry states . . . Kansas or whatever.
SARAH, holding the phone: They gave him wine, you know—the Romans . . .
SKIP: Well a little wine, but he can’t look stoned. I mean we’ve got several million born-agains watching. Actually, I was thinking aspirin . . . or Tylenol if he’s allergic . . .
EMILY: Aspirin with nails through his hands and feet? Skip dear, are you out of your fucking head?—I mean I personally am on the verge of disappearing here, but. . . . Look, I don’t know why I’m even talking to you!
SKIP, terror raised a notch: Emily, dear, in all solemnity—if you walk on this one you’d better forget about any more work from us! And probably most if not all the other agencies. Now that’s candid. It’s simply too late to get somebody else, and your career, I can assure you is a wipeout.
EMILY: You are threatening me, Skip.
SKIP: I’m in no way threatening, dear, but if I know Thomson, Weber, Macdean and Abramowitz a lawsuit is not out of the question, and you’ll be total roadkill in the industry!
Enter Felix in uniform, with the Captain.
FELIX: Henri! Good!—you’ve decided to come, what a nice surprise. Good morning all!—Have you met Mr. Cheeseboro? Mister Cheeseboro, Mr. Schultz, my cousin.
SKIP: We’ve met.
HENRI, taking Felix’s elbow—intimately: Felix, I beg you . . . we must talk before you commit to this.
FELIX: Later. I have a problem.
HENRI: What do you mean?
FELIX: Everything is under control . . .
HENRI: What are you talking about?
But Felix has spotted Emily and is instantly vibrating.
FELIX, both open hands toward her: And who is . . . ?
SKIP: . . . Our director, sir—Emily Shapiro.
EMILY: How do you do.
FELIX, sweeps his hat off his head, lowering it for an instant, hiding his “enthusiasm”: Wonderful! I hadn’t expected a woman . . .
SARAH, at one side with her phone: Why not! I assure you women can film crucifixions as well as anybody else!
FELIX: I’m sure, but . . . to Emily, while putting his hat back on. . . . watching them, you know, can make even strong men uncomfortable.
EMILY: Oh? . . . Is this something you do fairly often?
FELIX, points skyward: That depends on the weather . . .
SKIP, warm academic objectivity: Now isn’t that interesting.
FELIX: Most of our people are peasants, you see. A shake of the fist. When the crops are good, people are content. Points skyward . But it’s hardly rained for twenty-six months, so there is a certain amount of unrest; we have an old saying, “when the rain stops the crosses sprout.” It is not something we enjoy, I assure you, but there is either order or chaos. Are you taken for dinner?
EMILY: I hadn’t thought about it. . . . I hope you won’t mind too much, but I’ve half decided to try to stop this travesty from happening.
SKIP: That is not for you to . . . !
EMILY, over-shouting him: . . . Just so my crew and I—and especially Mr. Cheeseboro—know what to expect—when they’re being nailed up do they like . . . scream?
HENRI: Certainly.
EMILY: And for how long?
FELIX: Not very; usually they’re given a couple of bottles of tequila beforehand. Incidentally, I particularly admire your haircut.
SKIP: But you don’t mean they’re like . . . staggering.
HENRI: Of course.
FELIX: That is nonsense, Henri. Occasionally they have to be carried to the cross, but . . .
SKIP: Well that’s out of the question . . .
FELIX: Oh? Why?
SKIP: Carrying him up to the cross would be like . . . I don’t know . . . blasphemous in the United States!
EMILY: Sounds terrific to me . . . piggyback!
SKIP: Now wait, dear . . . !
EMILY:. . . Stop calling me “dear,” my name is mud. Miss Mud. Emily Mud. To Felix: I’m sorry, General Whatever, but I’ve lost my brain.
FELIX: Haha—it’s certainly not noticeable!
SKIP: Moving on to screaming, Mr. President—just to reassure our director—I assume it’s important to this man what kind of public impression he makes, right?
FELIX: I have no idea; he has refused to say a word since he was caught.
SKIP:—But I should think if he is confident that he is about to . . . like meet his father in heaven, you could put it to him as a test of his faith that he not scream on camera. The camera, you see, tends to magnify everything and screaming on camera could easily seem in questionable taste.
Resurrection Blues Page 4