Love, Unscripted

by Owen Nicholls

  I think about mentioning how Ellie asked me to go with her to New York, but it was so obviously just a pity ask I decide not to. And then, as if he’s poking around my brain…

  “You could always go with her. A last-minute romantic race to the airport seems pretty Nick Marcet. Maybe a jukebox above your head playing Take That’s ‘Back for Good.’ ”

  A reference of a reference. Seb gets me.

  “Is there really no way back for you two?”

  “I hate myself enough without standing in the way of some amazing job in America. If I’d had this quasi-revelation a week ago, who knows. But now, as Meat Loaf famously sang…”

  “If I do that, I’m an arse-hat.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Seeing her did remind me of one thing, though. One bad thing I’ve ignored for a while. When we were sitting in the pub, I remembered how much I preferred being alone with her behind closed doors, rather than out in public. I could feel people looking at us, even though we’re not together. Strangers have always been suspicious of us being a couple. Like, I must be super-wealthy or famous for someone as bog-standard as me to be with someone of her caliber.”

  Seb has a look on his face I’ve seen him give his kids. It’s paternal concern but with a hint of “you-really-should-know-better.”

  Without saying a word, he pulls me in for a hug.

  He gives good hugs.

  I’m gonna miss him when the inevitable death of our friendship rolls around.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—2:41 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 200

  MCCAIN 115

  270 NEEDED TO WIN

  “Go, go, go!”

  We ran, giggling like children, out of the door and down the stairs, trying not to trip over each other’s feet. She took the lead but overshot the back entrance to the screen.

  “This way! Seven seconds.”

  I considered singing Neneh Cherry. I wisely resisted.

  Down the screen stairs we ran, taking our seats just as the fake Lacuna Incorporated title card hit the screen.

  Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is one of those rare examples of a good trailer to a great film. Even though it’s not used in the film itself, I’ll never be able to hear ELO’s “Mr. Blue Sky” without thinking of the original promo.

  The cast has never been better. It’s Carrey’s best role, Winslet’s best role, Wilkinson’s best role, Dunst’s best role. Okay, maybe Ruffalo is better in Zodiac, but that’s the only one that’s even open to debate, and it’s hard to subjectively qualify Mr. Mark Ruffalo. He’s just great in everything.

  To back this point up, Ellie did a little squeee noise when he appeared on screen in the aforementioned underpants-dancing scene.

  And as quickly as it started, the trailer was over, white light shining on the screen once more. I looked up to the port, the dust dancing in the beam from the projector.

  “I know we have to go, but there’s just one more thing I have to show you.”

  * * *

  —

  “IT’S SPECTACULAR,” she said breathlessly.

  To be fair, the breathlessness probably had as much to do with climbing the fire escape as it did with the view. But she was right. It was spectacular.

  Keep your eyes away from the usual attention-grabbing landmarks—the Gherkin, Canary Wharf, St. Paul’s—and London will appear different every time you look at it. I used to come up to the roof every night when I first started in projection, but like the sanctity of the booth, I’d never shared it with someone who wasn’t a colleague.

  I looked over to Ellie and saw that she seemed less happy, a little pensive and reflective.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just the film. Makes me a little sad, y’know.”

  I didn’t know.

  “But it’s a happy film…well, a happy ending.”

  She looked at me quizzically.

  “How so?”

  I explained. “Well, they end up together. They ‘meet in Montauk.’ They learn from their mistakes and—”

  “But they don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Learn from their mistakes. That’s the point. They don’t get the chance to. They’ll end up making the same mistakes next time, the only difference being they have the knowledge of the memory-erasing procedure, so you’d hope they wouldn’t use it again. But Clem is presented as deeply impulsive, so it’s possible she could walk back into Lacuna in a few months’ time and do it all over again. That’s why the ending isn’t fist-in-the-air happy. It’s cautious. It’s bittersweet. At best.”

  I pondered her point of view for a moment or two.

  “That’s a little pessimistic, Ellie.”

  “That’s kind of the point of the film, Nick.”

  I felt this last statement was somewhat patronizing, and the mood shifted.

  I should have asked her then. I should have asked her, “Do you believe in true love?” I should have found out if our ethos was aligned, if our philosophy was simpatico. But I didn’t. I just waited for the awkward moment to end.

  And when it didn’t, I forced it to with a diplomatic “That’s what makes a great movie, though, when you can see different things from the person sitting next to you. When you can interpret the same scene a hundred different ways.”

  “I semi-agree,” she semi-acquiesced.

  After a calming pause, she followed it up with a wink and the extremely irritating utterance, “But on this one, you know I’m right!”

  It had been a little over three hours since I first laid eyes on Ellie Brown and I was already emotionally invested in the idea of us, way beyond where any normal person would be. I knew I wanted to be with her and so I knew I had to let little things go. Little things like varying interpretations of cinema’s modern classics.

  On this first night, at this moment, I persuaded myself there’d be a later date where I could show her how wrong she was and how right I was. I could hold out until we watched the film in its entirety together on our first anniversary. I could happily wait a lifetime to show her that Joel Barish and Clementine Kruczynski were soulmates, that they were destined to be together, that they were meant to be.

  I had all the time in the world.

  It takes me until my final shift to Google Ellie’s new job. It’s an amazing opportunity and I feel another wave of self-hatred that I prevented her from enjoying it fully. I think about calling her to say sorry, to wish her well and let her know how excited I am for her.

  I can’t ask her to stay for me. I knew that before, but it’s made concrete now, seeing the offices, the reputation the company has, the huge break this is.

  Because the digital switchover has been so seamless and everything’s now automated, there’s nothing for me to do. I pick up where I left the last shift, searching for jobs, typing the word “film” into Indeed.com, and being mortified by the results.

  A receptionist role at a small UK independent film company raises my hopes before dashing them on the rocks with the deadly phrase “must have similar experience.” If Ellie were by my side, she’d be imploring me to go for the internships and runners’ jobs, telling me I have to start somewhere and that she’ll support me. She’d be telling me to start writing again. To send off short screenplays to local directors. To send features to screenwriting competitions. Get something out there. Even if it’s just to get feedback.

  But I hate feedback. Unless it’s positive affirmation, and I’ve been in short supply of that for some time now.

  The monitor tells me there’s thirty minutes left on the last film.

  Thirty minutes left on my life as a projectionist.

  I’m still battling with my decision to jump before I was pushed.

  * * *

  —

  SEVENTEEN MIN
UTES LEFT.

  We never used to have a constant countdown. Sure, we knew the film’s running time and knew when it started, so it was simple math to work out when it would end, but we never had this ticking clock counting down to the apocalypse.

  Before, we’d simply take a look at the platter and estimate how much of the film was left by, well, how much film was left.

  The other projectionists are in the pub already for the leaving drinks. Ronnie hasn’t worked a shift since the announcement, and Lizzie and Dave have both been informed there’s a good chance that by Christmas the full redundancy will be in effect. Seb saw this as the best last chance for us all to get together. I’ve considered not going, but I fear he would hunt me down like a T-1000 if I didn’t.

  Sixteen minutes to go.

  * * *

  —

  IT FEELS JUST like any other shift, and yet completely and utterly unique.

  Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

  Every day was the first day of the rest of my time working in this cinema.

  Until today.

  Four minutes remaining.

  I look at the control panel for the digital automated system, and I look at the hammer lying next to it. It’s hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of equipment and I could destroy it in seconds.

  What would my crime be, anyway? Criminal damage? What’s the sentence for that? A quick online search says six months. I could learn a skill inside. Be the next Andy Dufresne. Minus the nonconsensual bum sex.

  Dream big, Nick.

  One minute.

  So, this is it.

  There will be no fanfare. No round of applause as I exit the building. I don’t even have a box of items to carry as I go. I will get to hand in my name badge and walkie-talkie, though. There’s something symbolic in that.

  Speaking of. I pick up the walkie-talkie and make my final announcement.

  “Mark, it’s Nick. Final film is on the credits. I’ll be down in five.”

  A fuzzy voice responds with a simple “Yep,” and so I power down for the last time and go to join the others in the pub.

  “This is Nick Marcet, last survivor of the Nostromo, signing off.”

  I steal a film splicer on the way out.

  * * *

  —

  MY FOUR FORMER colleagues and friends are holed up in the darkest corner of the pub by the back door. You can take the projectionists out of projection, but…

  When they clock me, the three guys hoot and bang the table, but in a reserved way that doesn’t draw too much attention. I can see immediately that Dave and Seb are pretty squiffy. Ronnie is on the soft drinks, because when you smoke as much weed as Ronnie, alcohol is the last thing you need.

  Lizzie is dressed up. Which is weird for her. Or maybe it isn’t. It’s been a while since I saw her in anything other than the cinema uniform of black polo shirt, black trousers, and black shoes. I think I decided she was a goth, but I don’t think she is. Anyway, she looks nice and like she’s made an effort.

  As I approach the table, I adopt my best north London accent and say, “Can I get any of you cun—”

  Before I can finish the line, a broad smile crosses Seb’s face as Dave, Lizzie, and Ronnie curse me out. They each hand him a five-pound note as he holds up a pre-scrawled-upon piece of paper saying Shaun of the Dead.

  I applaud his prognostication. “Well, can I?”

  Seb stands and bear-hugs me.

  “Sit yourself down. I’ll get these with my Predictable Nick winnings. You have some catching up to do. What’ll it be?”

  “Quadruple gin?”

  He smiles and slaps me around the face, just hard enough to sting.

  “That’s my boy.”

  I take a seat between Lizzie and Ronnie, who places his hand on my shoulder and looks deep into my eyes, giving me his best “I know the secret to the universe” look.

  “I know right now things are bad,” he says, “but this too shall pass. This too shall pass.”

  I have no intention of harshing Ronnie’s buzz.

  “I know, man, thanks.”

  “The Chinese use the same word for crisis as they do for opportunity.”

  I nod silently for fear that verbal agreement might provoke more sage offerings, and pick up Lizzie’s slip of paper with There Will Be Blood written on it.

  She shakes her head. “I thought you’d come in and say, ‘I’m finished.’ ” Her Daniel Plainview impression could rival Adam Buxton’s, and I find myself laughing for the first time in a while.

  Lizzie shuffles her chair closer. “Seb said you might be looking for somewhere to stay?”

  I glance to the bar to see Seb play-fighting with one of the staff, and I wonder when I’ll get my drink. I’m not sure I really want to be here sober.

  “Yeah, I’m sort of homeless in a few days’ time,” I reply.

  Ronnie jumps back in. “You can stay with me, dude, just say the word.”

  “Thanks, Ronnie, I’ll get back to you. I have a few options to consider.” The idea of waking up in Ronnie’s hotboxed living room for the next twenty years fills me with various kinds of angst.

  Lizzie leans forward and whispers, “If you don’t fancy that, one of my housemates moved out last week and we’ve yet to find a replacement. You’re welcome to come and take a look before you decide.”

  The proposal doesn’t immediately make me think no, so I offer a sincere thank you as Seb returns with my drinks.

  “Fucker said I couldn’t have a quadruple in the one glass, so I bought you three doubles. That’ll learn him.”

  I can’t see what the lesson is—or how there’s any way Seb could be doing the teaching in his condition—but I take the drinks happily. He raises his glass and we all join him.

  “A toast! To Meg, Billy, Ingrid, Cary, Jimmy, Donna, Humphrey, and Katharine. You fine metal bastards. So long, and thanks for all the film.”

  We cheer, and I knock back my first drink.

  * * *

  —

  I’M HAVING A really good time. The drinks help, of course, but I often forget how great everyone is.

  We’ve spent the past hour sharing our memories of the best and worst days the projection booth gave us. Dave wins the “worst day trophy” with his tale of a dropped copy of Lord of the Rings: Return of the King on opening night. I still remember running up the stairs to see him flailing around in the spaghetti-like mess of it all.

  His MacGyver job to fix it, however, was a work of architectural genius that would have made Frank Lloyd Wright piss himself. He interlaced the other copy of the film to play across two projectors simultaneously. A fairly standard practice in some cinemas, but not ours, which was ill-equipped for anything so complex. The only downside being he had to physically hold the film for the entire running time.

  “Three and a half fucking hours on your back holding that roller,” Seb hollers, to Dave’s pride.

  I get second place for the day I accidentally added the trailer to Kill Bill: Volume 2 to a Finding Nemo Kids’ Club performance. I still have nightmares about putting children off cinema for life.

  Lizzie spits up her beer when Dave remembers we referred to the incident as “Killing Nemo.”

  I forget how much fun Lizzie is and how much we have in common. We love the same movies and music, we hate the same politicians and celebrities. And she looks good tonight. Really good. She’s got this Diane Keaton in Annie Hall thing going on with her outfit. I really want to get her to say “Well, lah-di-dah.”

  Seb’s currently in full story mode about the time our former boss, a real creep of a guy, was caught doing something he shouldn’t in Screen 3.

  “I swear to God, this little usher, she must have been straight out of school, came running up to me screaming”—he adopts a young-gi
rl run and shrill voice—“ ‘There’s a man alone in the screen and I think he’s’ ”—he puts the back of his hand to his forehead like a Southern debutante inches from fainting—“ ‘touching himself!’ ”

  The table erupts.

  “Christ, what was the film?” Seb ponders, shaking his head, unable to recollect due to his blood alcohol content currently sitting at the level of Richard Burton.

  Lizzie smiles. “You dirty, filthy boys. I bet you’ve all done it. Alone in a booth after dark.”

  A chorus of unconvincing protests is fired back.

  “Liars,” she says, shaking her head. “Well, I have.”

  She downs her drink and follows it up with a declaration that she’ll be getting the next round, as we collectively pick our jaws up from off the floor. As she makes her way to the bar, the remaining boys—and we are boys in this moment—try to come to terms with the not unpleasant image Lizzie has just left in our minds.

  The silence is deafening and only broken by Seb loudly exclaiming:

  “It was Shrek 2! He was beating it to Shrek 2!”

  The hysterical nature of the memory is enough to turn him a really wonderful shade of red, as he struggles to breathe.

  * * *

  —

  IT’S WAY PAST kicking-out time when we stumble out onto the pavement. The sudden impact of fresh air makes the world spin a little faster.

  Ronnie departed a while back, unable to comprehend the ramblings of four drunken people. Before he left, he reiterated that I could stay at his place whenever I wanted, but I know of the two offers—litter-strewn stoner flat/lady-filled lovely house—which I prefer.

  Seb looks like he’s one bad decision away from re-creating his days of LSD-fueled car-top running, minus the LSD. So I stir it up. For funsies.

  “Hey, Seb,” I say with a grin. “Remember when you used to be cool? When you used to run across the tops of cars like a sexy Jason Bourne?”

  Dave looks up at him with a sense of newfound respect and I know what’s coming.