“Christ, that’s good,” she finally said, wiping away tears of berserk joy and regaining her breath.
She had a great laugh and she laughed often. Making her laugh was one of my favorite things in the entire world.
“Will you get into trouble for taking someone to the cinema in the middle of the night?” she asked in a way that I could only describe as deeply flirtatious, purposely making a meal of the word “trouble.”
“Nah, I take girls there all the time.”
I managed to keep the straightest of faces in my delivery and this time it was her turn to appear genuinely put out.
I quickly confessed to my joke, “That was a good one, right?”
She nodded with the corners of her mouth turned down in a way that looked very Robert De Niro–like, and I got a little confused as to why that turned me on.
“Well played, sir. But have you?”
“Have I what?” I said, realizing what the question was before I’d finished the sentence. “Brought girls to the cinema in the middle of the night?”
I was sort of gobsmacked at the realization that I hadn’t. It totally seemed like something I would have done.
But then nobody had ever given the Cinema Paradiso answer before. So, technically, nobody was worthy.
* * *
—
WHEN WE ARRIVED at the back entrance to the cinema, we both independently decided we were now the world’s greatest bank robbers on the heist of the century. Think Newman and Redford in The Sting, George Clooney and friends in the Ocean’s films, or the cat burglar in The Simpsons going after the world’s largest cubic zirconia.
We kept to the shadows, running between lampposts. We checked over both our shoulders incessantly—and then once over each other’s shoulders. We froze when we heard a cat screech down an alley and both dropped to the ground when we heard police sirens.
Once the coppers had cheesed it, we got to our feet and I pointed for her—SWAT team–style—to meet me at the back door.
“That was awesomely timed, what with the sirens and everything,” she said.
“Not really,” I replied bluntly. “There’s always police cars going full pelt because this is an insanely dangerous part of town. Especially at this time of night.”
She punched me on the arm, hard enough for me to need to give it a little rub.
I took out my keys and opened the door to the immediate and abrasive sound of the security alarm.
“Shit,” Ellie shrieked. “I thought you said it was okay!”
I couldn’t help but take a little pleasure in her unnecessarily over-the-top reaction after the teasing I’d endured from the second we’d met. Then, for fear that she might leg it into the night and get lost, I quickly put her mind at ease.
“It’s fine, I know the code.”
I turned on the tiny flashlight on my keys—the one I used for taking notes during print checks—and located the alarm panel.
“2001,” I said, pressing four buttons, “for Mr. Kubrick. 333 for Kieslowski.” Three more. “And 7 for Mr. Fincher.” The shrill beep stopped.
I turned to see Ellie rolling her eyes.
“You’re such a geek.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet!”
We ran through a pair of double doors and into the cinema corridor.
It was hard to see with the lights on their lowest setting, just purple strip lighting lining the floor and buzzing neon above each of the eight screen entrances. Years of stumbling about in the dark here, after hours, gave me a great opportunity to take Ellie by the hand.
“Pick a number from one to eight.”
“Four.”
“No, I don’t like four, it’s too close to the screen and there’s a small mark in the upper right-hand corner.”
“Okay.” A slight frustration was present in her voice, a warning to be careful, Nick. “How about six?”
“A fine choice.”
We entered the auditorium and I flicked a switch, bringing the lights up over the silver screen, illuminating the curtains on either side. I think it’s a glorious sight, a blank white screen, home to a shit-ton of possibility.
I went to a Q&A to see one of my favorite film critics once, and she was asked if she looked forward to watching bad films as much as good ones, because then she’d get to write a funny, scathing review.
She said, “Every time I sit in a cinema, waiting for the film to start, every inch of me hopes that over the course of the next two hours I will be shown something incredible. Something that makes me fall in love with movies like I did when I was a child. No matter how many times I may be disappointed, I never lose that hope.”
I looked at Ellie and smiled.
“Good, isn’t it?”
She stared at the blank white screen and squinted.
“Needs a little something, don’t you think?”
“Fine. Follow me.”
I led her up the stairs. When we reached the top, her eyes found the back row and she stopped and stepped backward.
“Hey hey hey, I told you before, you are not getting laid tonight.”
Rather than reply, I simply pushed on the exit door that she clearly hadn’t noticed and motioned for her to follow me.
“This way to where the magic happens.”
“You’re really loving this, aren’t you?”
I beamed as she followed me up the stairs to the booth.
“You have no idea.”
Inside the booth, Ellie was presented with a tiny snapshot of my inner self. Film posters lined the walls, film magazines were piled in one corner next to a tatty, beat-up chair, and CDs—mostly soundtracks—littered the bench where we made up the films.
It felt like I was showing her the intimacy of my home, rather than my workplace.
“Welcome to Projection Park. All in all, we have eight projectors in residence—James and Donna, Ingrid and Cary, Humphrey and Katharine, over there is Billy, and this, this is Meg. Meg meet Ellie, Ellie meet Meg. We’re getting a ‘digital projector’ next year, but that’s just a fad.”
“A robot projector? You’ll have to call her Brigitte after the Maschinenmensch in Metropolis.”
“God, that’s good. I’m stealing that.”
“By all means.”
I leaned with ironic seductiveness against Meg and whispered, “You want me to fire her up?”
Ellie nodded and we took a few small steps toward a very big cupboard.
Inside was a shelf labeled (rather embarrassingly) NICK’S FLICKS. On the shelf were ten mini reels holding my favorite trailers from films released between 2002 and 2008. The films were, in no particular order: Adaptation, Shaun of the Dead, Before Sunset, The Station Agent, Oldboy, Children of Men, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, a thirty-year reissue of Chinatown, and the most recent addition, WALL-E. The tenth trailer I quickly grabbed and hid behind my back.
I was too slow.
Ellie saw and asked, “What was that?”
“Nothing?”
The knowing grin returned.
“Garden State?”
I nodded, ashamed, and placed it back on the shelf.
“What would the lady like to watch this evening?” I corrected myself. “This morning?”
She studied the selection with great care before picking one up and asking the assistant (me) for help, effecting a well-crafted posh voice.
“Children of Men would be a fine pick, but a little morose for the current circumstances, no?”
I nodded sagely, enjoying my role as butler, as she picked up another.
“The Station Agent? I have not heard of this.”
“American, ma’am, 2003. An independent film written and directed by a Mr. Thomas McCarthy about a young man with dwarfism who lives a life of solitude b
efore…”
“…he observes that life is better spent in company?”
“Very astute of you, ma’am.”
She dropped the pantomime as quickly as she’d picked it up.
“Oooh, Oldboy. I love that film.”
“Nothing says first date like a pissed-off Korean guy with a hammer.”
She turned to correct me.
“This isn’t a first date.”
I cocked my head to one side.
“I invited you to the cinema and you said yes.”
She cocked her head the other way.
“This isn’t a first date. And I have decided,” she said as she passed me a reel, “while seeing Jake Gittes on the big screen would be a special treat, I can’t say no to Joel and Clem.”
I took the trailer from her with a bow and grabbed a leader from the cupboard, narrating as I went.
“As you’ll see, Meg, Megan, Meggie here has what we call a ‘platter system.’ To play our little feature we need to make a ‘loop’ on this ‘ring’ using a ‘leader.’ ”
“Are you going to do bunny ears every time you mention something faintly technical?”
I turned and raised the ears again.
“ ‘Yes.’ ”
I placed the mylar onto a spool and made up the leader on the ring, the sharp edges of the film bouncing between my forefinger and thumb until all that was left was a spinning bobbin.
Removing the rubber band and the trailer’s little cardboard label, I spliced the film to the end of the leader and began winding again. Noticing my audience wasn’t exactly enraptured by the process, I invited her to have a go.
“Me?” she asked in a faux-ditzy way, putting her hand to her chest and checking the empty room to make sure she wasn’t mistaken.
I nodded.
I stepped back and she took my place at the bench.
She held the frame to the light; her photography skills meant no warning against touching the image was needed. She gripped it with just the right level of care and attention.
“Look, it’s a mini Mark Ruffalo and he’s dancing in his pants!” Her mouth was wide with joy. “What’s the wavy bit?” she asked, pointing to the soundtrack.
“The sound.”
“Aw, mini Mark Ruffalo voice.”
“You like Mark Ruffalo, yeah?”
“Who doesn’t?”
It was a fair question.
She wound the film on and almost immediately snapped her left hand back, yelping in pain. I could see the thin, almost paper-cut-like incision in her finger.
“Sorry,” I offered, cringing as I said it, “I should have warned you, if you grip it too tight, it can burn a little.”
I held up two calloused digits.
“Do you want me to take over?”
She stepped to one side and motioned for me to finish the job, which I did, transferring the ring to the platter.
There’s something balletic about lacing up a projector, the twisting and turning and spiraling of the film as it hooks onto rollers and threads through sound drums. At the halfway point of the exercise things slow down as the film reaches the gate. It’s fiddly to line up the frames and the sprockets and usually takes a couple of tries and the odd frustrated “oh shit,” “ah piss,” and “fuck it.” But then the graceful motion commences as the film rejoins itself on the next platter.
A perfect loop of beginning, middle, and end.
I stood back, proudly admiring my finished work. Ellie looked on, suitably impressed.
“Now, we have thirty seconds after I push this button to get out of the booth and back down the stairs to our seats. You ready?”
She offered me two thumbs-ups. “I’m ready.”
I pushed the button.
Ellie’s pub revelation has led to some much-needed amendments to my opus, Why Ellie Left. I know it needs a new heading. An honest one. One that doesn’t give a false account of where the blame lies. I think for a moment, doodling on my notepad, as the bus veers around a corner.
I write, The Reasons We’re No Longer Together.
I am as much a part of the breakup as she, and admitting this is akin to standing up at an AA meeting. What I still don’t know is why. I have the suspect. Me. The room. A flat in Clapham. I just need to work out the murder weapon.
The list still stands at four, and the reasons are solid. I think about what’s happened in the last few months. There are certainly factors I’ve been choosing to forget. Whether or not those factors are really my fault, I’m still not ready to say. I’m still not ready for the truth. But the truth is out there.
Just as I’m close to something near a revelation, the passenger next to me sneezes onto my pad. He raises a hand by way of apology and I put the pad in my bag and stare out of the window.
The cosmic forces have aligned to make my last day of work the day after my parents abandon me. I moved from the flat to theirs at the start of September, but in six days’ time they leave, and I will be both homeless and jobless. I’m yet to find a remedy for either ailment.
As melancholic as all this might seem, I’m still on my way to the cinema. And so I have hope and happiness. Because there’s no such thing as a bad day when that day contains at least one trip to the cinema.
This trip, however, will be tough.
I’m not even supposed to be here today, but Seb gave me the heads-up and added a mini shift to the rota. He knew that as hard as it would be for me, I’d want to be here for this.
* * *
—
THE MASSACRE—FOR WANT of a better word—is already in progress.
Seb has picked Dave for the task, which makes sense as he is easily the best at wielding an Allen key. Billy is already in pieces, splayed out on the floor.
Meg is next.
I enter silently and stand to one side. Dave looks up and nods with reverence. He has the Kevlar out and ready. He has the boxes for the lamps and all the other bits and pieces out, ready to be packaged up and sent far, far away.
“Do you mind if I…?” I ask, holding up a CD-R.
I’ve come prepared.
“Usually I’d invoke first starter’s privilege with the music, but yeah, seeing as it’s you, go on.”
I put the CD in the player and press play on the most suitable song I can think of—the stripped-back AOL sessions’ live version of “Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, Pt. 1” by The Flaming Lips. Seb enters and stands beside me. He pats me on the back as Dave puts on the protective mask and Kevlar suit. The plastic face shield and bright yellow outfit makes him look like Marty McFly stepping out of the DeLorean in 1955.
“Would you both take a step back? You know, health and safety?”
He’s right to issue the warning. The lamps are 7,000 watts and filled with xenon. If one went off in your face, you’d be like Mel Gibson in that movie about the guy who didn’t have a face.
There’s always a heavy thunk when the lamp is released. It feels like Dave is removing Meg’s heart. He places it safely in its case and takes off his safety equipment.
Next the lens is taken out and wrapped in foam. Those are her eyes.
The amplifiers and sound system are staying put, her ears harvested for the new digital overlord.
Sorry, Yoshimi. Those evil robots won.
* * *
—
SEB AND I are down by the fire escape, smoking. All I can think about is the good times we had here, shivering in the winter, hiding from the heat in the summer. Early-morning coffees and light-night beers. Sharing stories of our weekends, seeking advice on our relationships.
I hope we stay friends, but you never can tell. He has kids, a wife, a home, a job. I am zero for four in comparison.
“That was pretty brutal,” I eventually say.
“Ma
de infinitely worse by you naming them,” he points out.
It’s a fair cop. I’m not sure the Toy Story films would have reduced quite so many children—and grown-ups—to quivering messes if our anthropomorphized heroes were simply known as the spaceman and the cowboy.
“You went for a drink with Ellie, right?” Seb asks. “How did that go?”
The question makes me think of the day after the evening me and Ellie first met. I was so happy telling Seb all about our stupid fun night and he was so happy to hear it.
“Drinks with Ellie? It was bad. Matrix Revolutions bad.”
He winces at the utter horror of the thought of it.
I continue, “She’s got a new job. In New York.”
He replies with a single and quite appropriate “Fuck.”
I use this compassionate cussing as the green light to let it all out.
“Seb, I was such a dick. She was patient and kind and it’s a damn miracle she didn’t walk out after about thirty seconds of my petty bollocks.”
Seb’s nodding does nothing for my confidence. It’s far too easy for him to picture what I was like in that pub with Ellie, having seen the grumpy side of me after certain films that shall not be named failed to live up to expectations.
“As she was trying to share this great news, trying to open up to me about stuff, all I could think was ‘you dumped me, you dumped me, you dumped me.’ ”
“You were together four years. It’s perfectly natural for you to feel a little bitter. Her choosing to leave must have been devastating.”
I know deep inside I cannot continue the lie, and so…
“But she didn’t.”
“What?”
“Choose to leave.”
Seb blinks and his eyes dart about like he’s trying to work out the plot of a David Lynch film.
I put him out of his misery.
“She didn’t dump me. I mean, she didn’t fight for me, but that’s not the same.”
“So what happened?”
“I still don’t know.”
There’s only an element of truth to this.
Love, Unscripted Page 13