by Corey Mesler
Eric made a damn fool of himself quizzing each and every cast member about his lost love. Hassle Cooley—even Hassle Cooley denied all knowledge of her. He did take the opportunity, Hassle did, to tell Eric of one more project he was sure Eric would be interested in—to be called It’s a Horrible Life—about a guy who is given a glimpse of the world without him and discovers that it’s a much better place. The devil shows him it would be a better place without him.
He called Rica, good Rica. What he got from him was a theory of metaphysics.
“Here’s what I think happened,” Rica said. “Here, in Memphis, perhaps through us, perhaps through our coming here, for whatever reason, there has occurred a breach into the otherworld. The thin membrane that separates life from—whatever else is not life—has ruptured, oh so slightly, right here, where we are working. Now, we can ask why, we can wonder at the wonder of finding ourselves up to our third eyes in otherness, but that’s fruitless. Instead, we need to listen, to pay attention, to let the dreamspace inhabit us or let ourselves inhabit it. Does that make sense to you? That it’s ours, this rupture, this bleeding through, it is somehow ours?”
No one had seen her. No one knew anyone named Mimsy Borogoves. He called Hope. Surely Hope would not desert him now.
“Hello, Eric, dear,” she said.
“Hope, thank God,” Eric said. Even to himself he sounded reckless. He took a deep breath. “Hope, you remember Mimsy Borogoves, don’t you? Beautiful woman who worked for Linn Sitler’s office. She and I—” He didn’t finish the thought.
“I’m sorry, Eric,” Hope said. Her voice was honey. “I don’t recall meeting her.”
“Yes,” Eric said. “I see. I see now.”
In his distraction, he even called Dan’s women. Sue Pine hung up on him. Somehow he found a number he didn’t know he had. A young woman named Dudu Orr. He thought Dan had given him the number, had promised her a part.
“Hi!” Dudu said, brightly. Easily the most friendly response Eric had gotten.
“Hi, listen,” Eric said. This woman sounded like a child. She probably was a child. “I am no longer working on the movie.”
“Oh,” Dudu said. Her disappointment was palpable. “Me neither,” she said.
“Right. Listen. Do you remember a woman whom I was seen with occasionally, pale skin, beautiful eyes—oh damn, wait. This is impossible. Her name was Mimsy. Mimsy Borogoves.”
“Sure, I know Mimsy,” Dudu said.
Good God. Eric hesitated. He felt closer now.
“You do?” he said, warily.
“Of course. Beautiful chick.”
“Yes!” Eric said.
“Why do you want her?” The child’s voice had a sharpie’s inflection to it.
“I need to see her. I will be leaving soon, going back to California. I need to let her know where I’ll be.”
“Back to Hollywood, huh?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it worth to you, this Mimsy’s whereabouts?”
What was this, some kind of negotiation?
“Worth to me?”
“What is in it for Dudu? I want to go to Hollywood.”
Eric was up against it.
“Of course you do,” he said.
“You’ll take me with you?”
“Of course,” Eric said. “Please—just tell me where she is.”
“You remember me, right? You know I’m one beautiful chick. I’m prettier than Mimsy even. I’ve got a body men love. Dan Yumont said I had tits like Marilyn Monroe. I could be a movie star.”
“You could,” Eric said.
Now there was silence. He wasn’t playing her right. He’d forgotten how to do these things.
“You’re not taking me to Hollywood,” Dudu said.
“I would do what I can, really,” Eric said. “My power is limited, of course—”
“Right,” Dudu said. He had lost her.
“Dudu—please, Mimsy. Tell me, please.”
“I’ve never heard of no fucking Mimsy Merigrove,” she said. And ended the call.
Eric had one last chance. He called Dan.
“Hey, man,” Dan said. “First of all, before you say anything, you got a raw deal, Buddy. When I get back to the coast I’m gonna see about it. Of course I’ve got one more shoot after this, so, it might be a while.”
“Thanks, Dan. You’re good people. Listen,” Eric took a deep breath. “Do you remember a woman named Mimsy Borogoves, a lovely pale-skinned brunette I was seeing during the shoot? She worked with Linn Sitler.”
“You were seeing someone during the shoot?”
“Yes,” Eric said. He could see it crumbling. His hope.
“You were cheating on Sandy?”
It was ridiculous, of course. He almost sounded disapproving.
“Yes, in a sense. Do you remember her?”
“No, Buddy, sorry. I don’t know her.”
“Ok,” Eric said.
Why was Dan’s ignorance the final stroke? Eric turned off all the lights. The house in Midtown Memphis, which would soon pass out of his hands, was dark. In the dark Eric saw shapes he didn’t want to see. Cast members past, characters from his early movies, they all passed in judgment of him. But, unlike his father’s ghost, they did not speak to him. They passed silently by, a once-glittering entourage, now reduced to shadows.
What had he lost? Everything. What had he not lost? Mimsy Borogoves. He had not lost her. He never had her. Not in the old sense of a bird that he kept caged but in the sense that he never had her because she did not exist. She was a product of his Memphis Movie endgame. She was special effects, the kind of high-gloss, Spielbergian faker that he eschewed in his films, the kind of Hollywood humbuggery he hated. She was broken pieces of mirror that simulated water.
And where was he to go now? Hollywood, that expensive set, that wasteland, did not welcome him. He had come to Memphis to die, he now realized. Like poor Suze Everingham. Like Camel. He would lie down and die. He would welcome the closing of the light, the shutting down of the movie of his life. The dressed set undressed, the hot set cooling and ticking in its abandonment. He saw a sign clearly: filming winds today. His final credits would roll and he would not be there to see them.
But then he remembered that his Beckett was gone and he thought, I cannot die. Tonight I cannot die. And the dark rolled on like the waves of celluloid, dreamed and procreated.
Yes, in the dark, Eric saw much that he did not want to see. But he saw one thing that was comforting to him and this one thing saved his life. Eric didn’t want to die. He didn’t really think his life was over because his career was over. This one thing made Eric sit up and take stock. He turned on a light. Its glow was weak, a yellow glim in the fusc. But, in that glow, he saw it clearly.
It was not one picture but a montage, something film excelled at, the melding of images, the sexy slide show. Like a trailer—the best bits illumined by polish and fairy light. There, in that rented house, in a home that was no one’s, Eric saw this: he saw Cary Grant’s dimple; he saw the Ferris wheel in The Third Man; he saw the light in Tuesday Weld’s hair, McCabe dying in the snow, the child Napoleon’s snowball fight, Chaplin’s “Smile” fadeout. He saw Annie Hall’s tennis game, Blow-Up’s feigned tennis game, Bibi Andersson’s luminous close-ups; he saw the sweat run down the nun’s face in Black Narcissus. He saw Virginia Woolf writing Mrs. Dalloway. He saw Monica Vitti’s smile, the solar eclipses of Anna Karina’s eyes, Lee Marvin’s silver nose. He saw Dr. Strangelove, the poet Morant, George Bailey, Aguirre, Amelie, Kane, Sally Bowles. He saw Baptiste, the mime; he saw Mabuse, the dacoit. He saw HAL’s murderous red eye. He saw Marilyn playing the ukulele, Marcello Mastroianni floating upward on a tether, the Who exploding at Woodstock, Pamela Franklin’s perfect fundament, George and Martha exploding in their living room, Monty Clift decking the Duke, Christina Ricci chained to a radiator. He saw King Arthur’s coconut shell horses, Astaire and his firecrackers, Peter Sellers’s unctuous Quilty, Jack Lemmon w
aiting for Shirley MacLaine outside the theater, Barbara Stanwyck’s ankle bracelet. And he saw the Beatles explode into manic anarchy, their beautiful young faces caught for all time, frozen at a moment when the world was their own.
He saw it all and saw, not that it was good or meet or right or even inspiring. He saw that it was absurd. And as Camus said, the absurd is the first truth.
It made him laugh, the absurdity, the incongruous, somehow paranormal absurdity. Flickering images, that’s all they are, that’s what his life has been up to this point. Flickering images. Grainy photographs made of waves and particles, in the same way the world around us is not continuous but grainy. It made him laugh.
And it gave him rest. Just for now, it gave Eric some peace.
Epilogue
Q:So, Sandy, welcome. Memphis Movie is a wrap, isn’t that right?
A:Yes, Donald, that’s right. We have finished the film and most of us have moved on now to other projects.
Q:Well, we appreciate you staying behind long enough to answer a few questions.
A:My pleasure.
Q:First, for all those who don’t know, you were not the director when the film began shooting in Memphis.
A:That’s right. This film is really Eric Warberg’s film. We finished it in honor of him.
Q:And why was Eric unable to finish the film?
A:It’s complicated.
Q:Give us a simple version.
A:Well, there is no simple version. Eric is from Memphis. This became a burden to him as shooting went on. He was unable to create the necessary distance from the material an artist must master. Memphis became the subject of the film for Eric. And, for Eric, the subject of Memphis is, in a way, overwhelming. He became overwhelmed.
Q:I don’t quite understand.
A:I told you it was complicated.
Q:Where is Eric now?
A:I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him in a week or so.
Q:Will he be directing again?
A;I have heard a rumor that he’s already picked up another gig.
Q:Can you tell us about that?
A:Just a rumor, mind you, but talk is he was offered the new Dennis Quaid, Meg Ryan comedy, If This Is Heaven Then I Must Be Dead.
Q:Isn’t that a remake of—
A:Yes, Here Comes Mr. Jordan.
Q:I’ve heard it’s been turned down by every A-list—
A:No.
Q:Ok. Ok. Let’s see. How are you with working with actors? I have a quote here from you about a certain leading lady. You were quoted as saying, “She’s a waste of good shampoo.”
A:Ha-ha—no, no, that was certainly taken out of context.
Q:So actors.
A:Unlike Hitchcock I see them as collaborators, cohorts, cohabitants, coconspirators. There’s probably a few more co’s I’m missing.
Q:This leading lady—
A:Can we talk about Memphis Movie?
Q:Of course. Tell me how you want this movie to be perceived. Tell me your vision of the movie, or for the movie.
A:My vision? I don’t know. It’s a good picture. It’s a story made of words, really, which, as you know, is a sticky wicket in film, it being an almost totally visual medium. What I wanted for the ending—at first—was this backward montage at double speed—triple speed—showing the story rewinding all the way back, scene by scene, backward—denouement to beginning, so the characters undevelop, back through to the opening scene, to the opening credits, and, finally, back through that to the director in his—uh, her—chair, through the set, outside the set, zooming through the tunnel of the unconscious, and ending with the writer putting down his pen.”
Q:Wow.
A:But that didn’t pan out, so to speak. I rewrote that.
Q:You are a writer, correct? You also wrote the movie.
A:Yes, I wrote it.
Q:So, naturally, you are a word person.
A:Unnaturally, perhaps. (She laughs.)
Q:Tell us the storyline.
A:Oh, a recounting of the storyline only bores. I’ll leave it to the trailer people to capture it.
Q:Rumors have it that the film is all about sex. That its sex scenes will surpass all previous sex scenes. This is hyperbole, I imagine.
A:I sense a question in there. The sex in Memphis Movie? It’s real, not in the sense that the actors engaged in actual intercourse on film, but in the sense that it is true.
Q:And there is a lot of it?
A:I don’t know what a lot is. Listen. It is all about sex, filmmaking I mean. Hollywood breathes in sex and exhales sex. Every scene in every damn movie is about sex, about seduction, about man wanting woman and woman wanting man or man to man, woman to woman. Every scene. You get me? E. T. Watch it closely, it’s about sex, desire. Raiders of the Lost Ark, Romancing the Stone. What are they in actual fact looking for? The old in-out. Consummation. Bambi. Godzilla. Sex is all Hollywood knows. Or, what’s the biggest damn movie of the past decade, Titanic. Jesus, sex sex sex. Ram that iceberg! Hell, it may be an accurate representation of the world. Maybe sex is the only question and the only answer. In Hollywood everyone sits around watching themselves. You see?
Q:Well, that’s certainly a provocative statement.
A:I was not aiming at provocation.
Q:Well, quickly, Sandy, before we have to end, can you give me a plot summary, something, a reason you finished the movie and Eric could not, something in the writing? Something in Eric Warberg’s character and the movie’s premise? What about Memphis Movie drove Eric away and brought you onboard?
A:(After a long pause) I’m sure I don’t know what you’re getting at. Memphis Movie, which may be renamed—they are now playing with titles—Ralph Meeker’s Blues is one, Bananas on Bananas another, and there was a cryptic message left on my voice mail—a young girl’s voice—with I believe another suggestion, Boo Enema, imagine that, Boo Enema—or my choice, which is Regicide—but this movie exists because of Eric Warberg. It is Eric’s movie. And I will tell you this last thing—maybe it’s important; maybe it’s only another soap bubble. Here is the tagline they will use to sell this movie. Ok?
Q:Yes, please.
A:“In Memphis he went searching for soul. Unfortunately, he lost his.”
Q:That’s it?
A:That’s it.
DELETED SCENES
Eric and the Ghost of Sergei Eisenstein
Eric had grown frustrated with the day’s shooting. They only had the one scene scheduled but everyone seemed to be off their game. He had repeatedly told Kim not to block the key. Even after explaining to her what that meant she continued her histrionic movements. He wanted to shackle her.
He headed to the men’s room during a break. There he splashed his face with cold water and stood long before the mirror. The face in the mirror was his and not his. He didn’t know how long the little man had been sitting there before he noticed him. He was suddenly in the mirror as if his portrait had just developed.
Eric turned to face him. He looked familiar. The nose, the strong jaw . . .
“Hello, Eric,” the man said.
“Do I know you?” Eric rightly asked.
“You do,” he said.
“I’m sorry—I—”
“I am Sergei Eisenstein,” the man said. Even his smile looked grim.
“Another ghost then,” Eric said.
“Yes, if you like.”
“Whether I like it or not. Apparently, the line between the dead and the living has become smudged.”
“Other specters, then,” Eisenstein said.
“Yes—my father repeatedly.”
“One’s father is omnipresent. Death does not diminish that.”
“Yes. I see.”
“How’s the shoot?”
“Frustrating.”
“Always, always. Do you know how many times I shot that damn baby carriage?”
“No, that is, I have read . . . somewhere.”
“At any rate. Stay with it. You are the visionary. Everything e
lse is just—lunch.”
“Yes,” Eric said, uncertainly.
“Watch some of the master’s work, Eric. Study your predecessors. I had no such luxury.”
“You—you were like God. You practically invented the language of film.”
“Ach, nice of you to say. We did what we could. I was an architect, in a way, an engineer. We were working in a new medium. The field was wide open. A liberating feeling at times. At times overwhelming.”
“I can see that.”
“Go home and watch Nevsky. Watch Sunrise. Pandora’s Box. Any Chaplin. Chaplin worked those fields as if he were alone. And perhaps he was, alone on the mountain. Watch Napoleon. Gance, goddammit, he was so ferocious. Pay attention to where his camera stops.”
“Yes, thank you. I’ve seen all the films you mentioned. Sunrise—what a masterpiece!”
“Don’t just see the films, Eric. Study them. Inspect.”
“Yes, sir.” Eric felt as if he were in school. Or heaven.
“Oh, and Eric.”
“Yes—”
“Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. It’s the finest film ever made. I still believe that.”
And his image flickered and was gone.
Sandy and Jimbo after the fight
“He said to me, ‘You’re a stoop.’ So I hit him.”
“But—”
“He called me a stoop!”
“No, dear, he said astute. You’re astute.”
“What’s a stoot?”
“Astute. One word.”
“There is such a word?”
“Yes. There is.”
“What does it mean?”
Eric and Sandy in the morning
“Did I wake you?”
“I didn’t know I was asleep.”
“So I woke you?”
“I didn’t know I was asleep until I wasn’t.”
“Uh-huh.”
“There’s a metaphor there but I need coffee first.”
“Who needs metaphors?”