At night he would sit by his window and look down at the garden and he’d see it sitting there. It would stare up at him with eyes that glinted in the moonlight and a face devoid of feeling or definition. Sitting, waiting. Its skin was as black as graphite and it skulked silently around the garden. He knew it couldn’t speak but he could imagine its thoughts in his head. Where are you going to go? it asked. Who’s going to believe you?
Every morning he went down the moss-covered steps to the back garden and he’d look at the ground beneath the window. Sticks and stones and anything else it could find. It’s all in your head, he said. He’d pick up the sticks and the stones and he’d put them back to where he thought they came from. Must be the wind, he thought. And still he wouldn’t go out at night.
When he examined the garden, he came back in the house and went into the bathroom and washed, matting the hairs on his face with cold water. The mirror was covered in dust and dirt but he wouldn’t dare clean it. He turned the tap off and then on again and waited before he ran his toothbrush under the gushing water, scrubbing at his teeth. He dipped his head and took a mouthful. Swirling, gargling, spitting. In the kitchen he sat at the table with some burnt toast and cereal and he listened to the clock in the next room. As early as late afternoon he’d already be at the window, peering out at the orange sun on the horizon.
The garden was in complete disarray. Bone-dry grass up to the knee, masking the stone paving. Weeds as tough as sinew. A pebble-bottomed basin, stained with algae. One day I’ll clean it up, he thought. Then it can’t hide. But he never did.
He remembered the first night. The sound of rattling on the window like hailstones, but he couldn’t be sure. The next morning he woke up and went down to the pond and he found a frog stripped to the bone. At night he used to try and sit at the other side of the house, but he could feel its eyes piercing through the walls like an x-ray. What if it came round? he thought. What if it came in. All he could do was wait for morning.
Once a week at midday he’d leave the house and walk along the dusty road to the shop in the middle of town, wrapped in the stained gabardine of his coat regardless of the weather. A hat hung low over his brow that all but hid his eyes. Each time he’d get the same goods and the woman at the till would quote the price without even ringing up the bill. Bread, eggs, milk, cereal. Tinned goods and ham. He’d nod and mumble a thank you before shuffling out the door and up the road to the house.
Perched at the window, he sat with a bottle of whisky, slowly splashing some into a thick glass. When the night came he sat in a stupor, staring blankly through the glass, but he never passed out. Always conscious of its eyes. Its face. He tried to stare back at it but he knew he couldn’t win. Eventually he snapped and he slammed the glass on the windowsill before stumbling down the stairs. He reached the back door and grabbed the handle when he felt a stream of pain surge through his palm. His hand was bleeding. Christ, he thought. What’re you doing? He cradled his hand as he walked toward the sink and he ran it under the cold tap, picking small fragments of glass from the wound. He washed the blood from his hand and he wrapped it in a teatowel as it pelted the window with stones. He looked out and he heard it hissing and spitting with anticipation and he heard it all the way back up the stairs and when he saw it through the window it sat back down again and stared right through him.
He sat for hours in a chair in the livingroom, the armrests worn and stained with sweat, staring at the television. Dusty, wooden panelling. The screen was cracked and the glass splintered across the reflection of his chest. He didn’t remember breaking it. On the wall hung pale squares were once there were pictures. Paintings. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost four in the afternoon. He stood up and walked over to the window and he pulled back the dark and heavy curtain, peering out the window. Clouds, dim sunlight. He went through to the kitchen and he took a glass from the cupboard, eyeing it vaguely as the copper-coloured liquid splashed to the top. He looked out at the garden. After a while it began to rain and he walked back to his chair, following the slow orbit of the hands around the clockface. He slid down and closed his eyes and he listened to the steady and monotonous rhythm of the clock like a metronome, counting away the minutes and the hours of the early evening sun.
Once he tried to take a photo but it scuttled into the bushes at the back of the garden, waiting for him to give up. He sat all night with the camera pointed out the window but he could feel its eyes darting out from the blackness, burrowing into his skin. Curse you, he said. Curse you to hell.
A little before one o’clock, he sauntered up the road, carrying his shopping. The sun was beating down from above and he stopped for a minute to catch his breath before finally reaching the house. He climbed the stairs onto the off-white porch, divvying his weight on the banister. The feeling of peeled paint and chipped wood under his hand. He went into the pocket of his coat and brought out a set of keys and when he went to put them in the door he noticed it was slightly ajar. He stood for a minute. I locked that door, he said. I know I did. Slowly, he put down the bag and pushed the door open til it lay flat against the wall. From the doorway he could see through to the livingroom and into the kitchen. He stepped inside. When he reached the chair he took off his hat and his jacket and lay them down before looking around the room. He went into the kitchen and done the same thing before going upstairs and into the bedrooms. I’m sure I locked that door. He went into the bathroom. On the wall the mirror hung smashed and half the glass had flaked into the sink like a shattered ice sculpture. He ran down the stairs and out the door into the back garden, clawing at the knee-high grass with his bare hands. Where are you? he said. Where the fuck are you? Before long he was out of breath and he sat on the hot stone steps, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He sat listening to the chirping of birds and insects and eventually he stood up and went back into the house.
He rifled through the cupboards in the kitchen and the bathroom looking for anything of use and he lay what he found out on the kitchen table. Charcoal lighter fluid, old cans of deodorant, a matchbook. He stood at the foot of the table and he looked at the items strewn across it, half-shrouded under his late afternoon shadow. Something was missing. He went back up the stairs and into the bedroom, raking through the cupboards and the drawers. He brought out some old bedsheets and he rolled them into a ball and carried them under his arm. When he got to the kitchen he unravelled the sheets and draped them over the back of the chair and he went to the cupboard and he poured himself another drink, feeling it siphon down his throat as he stared longingly into the dying sunlight.
He ambled into the garden, carrying the hoard of items in an open bedsheet like a picnic blanket. He bent his head to the side, watching his step, and he lay the sheet on the ground. Methodically, he went around the border of the garden, treading the dry grass til it lay flat. He looked at the sheets. Not enough, he thought. Not nearly enough. Quickly, he ran back into the house and up the stairs and he went into the cupboard and he brought out anything he could find. Shirts, suits, jeans. He came back down the stairs and out into the garden and he dropped them on the steps before taking them one at a time, covering the trampled grass. Before long he’d filled the entire outline of the garden with clothes and sheets and he went round them all and doused everything with deodorant and lighter fluid. When he was done he went back into the kitchen and he poured another drink. What the hell are you doing? he thought.
It was almost nighttime. He stood in the kitchen and he poured himself a full glass of whisky before sending the rest of the bottle down the drain. He went upstairs and dropped the empty bottle on the bed. Carefully, he unwrapped the towel from around his hand and he winced as it peeled from his sticky flesh before spraying one end of the bloodsoaked cotton with deodorant. He took the lighter fluid and he poured what little was left into the empty bottle before stuffing the towel in the bottleneck. He walked into the bathroom and he turned both taps on full, splashing the water onto his face. His hands were shaking. As he was about to leave he turned and looked at the mirror. The upper half was still intact and he carefully wiped away the dust and the dirt and he looked into his sunken eyes. You look old, he thought. He turned and dried his hands before turning off the light.
When he looked out the window he saw it staring up at him. He went to the window and opened the latches. He could hear it hissing. From his pocket he brought out the matchbook and he fumbled until one sparked into life and he held it up to the towel. It lit with a dull whoosh and he was trembling as he pushed open the window and threw the bottle down with all his strength. It cracked on the ground and sparked in all directions, igniting the sheets and the clothes encircling the garden. He stood watching. It walked around the perimeter as if looking for a way out before sitting down again, gazing up at him once more. The flames spread through the dried grass and into the middle of the garden and it sat undisturbed as a curtain of black smoke smothered the entire garden. He ran into the kitchen but all he could see was the smoke spiralling into the night sky. In the distance, sirens blared ever closer.
When he opened his eyes, someone was standing in the corner of the room. An older man, in his fifties, wearing a robe a shade of green usually reserved for the sourest of sweets. Like some neon cloak. He stepped out from the shadows into the middle of the room, the moonlight bouncing off his head like a satellite dish in summer. He stood there, lollipop in hand, looking down at the man. The man gulped, and before long he mustered up the courage to ask the question to which he already knew the answer. “Are you-?” Kojak lifted a finger to his lips before placing the lollipop in his mouth, the stick hanging out like a frozen cigarette. He took off his glasses and hung them over the front pocket of his robe. The man lay in bed, trying to speak, but he couldn’t, as if his mouth were filled with sand. Kojak walked over and sat at the foot of the bed, crunching the lollipop between his teeth. After a while he took the mangled stick from his mouth, flicking it to the other side of the room, then he stood up, untied his robe, and climbed into bed. “Who loves ya, baby?”
Then he woke up.
Jamie looked around the room, but it was empty. With a sigh, he wiped the sweat from his brow before squinting at the hazy-green diode of the clockface. 04:13. He stood up, stretched, and stumbled into the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water before walking back to the bedroom. He sat at the foot of the bed, staring out the window. What the fuck? he thought.
06:15. I’m not getting back to sleep, am I? He went into the kitchen, probing through the cupboards and the fridge, but it was slim pickings. Spaghetti, beans, soup. Cheese, stale bread. Eventually, he filled a pot with water and he put it on the stove, cracking the spaghetti in half before dropping it in. It was still dark outside. He walked into the livingroom and turned on the TV, flicking through the news channels. Falling employment, rising crime. After a while he went back to the kitchen. Stirring, waiting. He watched the spaghetti bob up and down and flay in the boiling water, like some sea anemone sprung to life by the faintest far-away vibration. A few minutes later he turned off the stove and poured the spaghetti into a sieve, grating some cheese to stir into it. He put it all on a plate and he took it to the livingroom, sitting crosslegged on the couch, watching the blurred TV. I need glasses, he thought. When he finished, he went back to the kitchen and he put the plate in the sink before finally going for a shower.
Outside, the rain was lashing down heavily. From the bus he saw pedestrians hurrying to and fro under their umbrellas like scuttling beetles. When he got to the office he signed in at the desk before going up the stairs. He glanced into the elevator, surveying the sardined occupants with pity. Jamie took his physical fitness pretty seriously. Each morning, before his shower, he’d do a hundred situps and fifty dips on each leg, and every Thursday he’d play football with some people from the office. Thighs like oak, buns of steel. He sat down at his desk and he turned on the computer before lying back in his chair, listening to the sounds around the office. Rain beating off the windows, phones ringing. Inane chitchat. A moment later, the familiar sound of his computer starting up made him open his eyes and slide forward. A login screen.
Name: JamieM88
Password: ******
Before long, there was an assortment of windows open on his desktop. Spreadsheets, internet browsers, a calculator. Solitaire, minesweeper. He sat for a few hours, typing away, before he heard a knock on the frail walls of his cubicle. It was Gary.
“Yo yo,” he said. “Lunch?”
“Sure,” said Jamie. And then he typed some more.
Jamie and Gary walked into the cafeteria, each carrying their lunch in scrunched-up paper bags. Gary brought out a BLT sandwich and a can of coke, whereas Jamie sat silently, gnawing contentedly at an apple. Gary looked up, speaking with a mouthful of bacon and lettuce.
“You look tired, man.”
Jamie sighed. “I didn’t get much sleep.”
“How come?” he said, the crumbs falling to his lap like a miniature rockslide.
“I had a dream.”
“Easy, Martin.”
Jamie balled up his paper bag and threw it across the table. “Very funny.”
“Alright, alright. Seriously though, what kind of dream? Like a nightmare?”
“Sort of.” Jamie looked over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear. He lowered his voice. “It was kind of like a sex dream - but not in the good sense.”
Gary looked up over his glasses. “Really now?” he said, enthused. “Who was it, your mother?”
“No,” he said. “It was-”
Silence. Gary gestured with his hand, as if directing traffic. “Yes?”
“It was Kojak.”
Abruptly, he stopped chewing, like a wary gazelle. “Kojak?”
“Kojak.”
He placed his sandwich on the table. “Kojak, as in, Kojak Kojak?”
“The very same.”
Gary picked up his sandwich again, nibbling at the hard crusts. “You know,” he said, “The G is wondering if there’s something you’d like to tell me.”
Jamie’s eyes widened. “Gimme a break, fucknuts. And stop calling yourself that, no one else does.”
“Whatever. I’m not the one that got in the sack with Kojak.” Jamie scowled at him. “But really though, he just showed up, and he fucked you?”
“No no, nothing like that.” He slid forward, as if ready to armwrestle. “I woke up – at least, I thought I did – and he was just standing there, wearing this ridiculously green robe.”
“The robe was the ridiculous part?”
“Shut up. So anyway, he’s standing there, and he eventually puts a goddamn lollipop in his mouth before taking off his robe, coming into bed. He actually fucking said it.”
“Said what?”
“You know what.”
Gary puffed out his cheeks and held out his hands, palms up.
“Who loves ya, baby?”
Gary swung back in his chair and let out a loud guffaw, his mouth hanging open like a greedy pelican.
“Calm down,” he said. “Anyway, that’s when I woke up.”
“And you’ve been up ever since?”
“Yeah. Four in the goddamn morning.”
“Jeez.” Gary glanced up at the clock above the counter. “We better get going.” He stood up, brushed the crumbs from his lap, and headed for the door.
Jamie looked at him. “Gary-”
He turned. “Don’t worry,” he said. “My lips are sealed.”
When he got home, he took his off his jacket and hung it on a peg next to the door. He went into the bathroom and grabbed a towel before walking to the livingroom, turning on the TV. He sat on the couch, dabbing at his hair, flicking from channel to channel. He thought about making something to eat, but he remembered that he had next to no food. Instead, he ordered a pizza. After a while it arrived and he ate it all before checking the news and heading to bed. It was only eight o’clock.
As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out like a light. At first, he dreamt of going to the office. He climbed the stairs, but when he walked through the door, he was back in his hallway. He was standing next to the peg at the door when he realised he was wearing nothing but his socks. “In here,” a voice said. It came from the livingroom. When he walked in, Kojak was sitting on the couch, wearing the same robe from the night before. He patted the cushion beside him, but Jamie stood there, statuesque. “Suit yourself,” said Kojak.
Finally, he spoke: “What are you doing here?”
Kojak slipped a cigarillo from his front pocket, gesturing toward Jamie, who shook his head. He shrugged his shoulders and put it in his mouth. It was already lit. “Are you going to smoke that?”
Jamie looked down at his hands. He was holding a cigarette. “I need a light,” he said.
Kojak stood up and patted his pockets before sitting back down again. “Sorry, kid.”
Jamie stared at him, almost oblivious to the fact that he was stood naked in front of a fictional television detective. “Why are you-”
“I’m here because you need me,” said Kojak.
“Because I need you?”
“That’s right.” He sat blowing smokerings toward the ceiling; their wavy outlines a pale shade of blue in the moonlight.
“But aren’t you-”
Kojak held the cigarillo in his mouth, cracking his fingers and neck simultaneously, as if limbering up for a fight. “I don’t think that matters here, Jamie. Besides, you’re going to wake up in a minute.”
It was two in the morning.
The next morning, Jamie sat at his desk, bleary-eyed, peering into the piercing luminescence of his computerscreen. On his break, he went down to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. When he got back, he noticed a new temp worker wandering around the office, her finger hooked in her bottom lip, like a child that’s lost in a shopping centre. She was wearing a plain black pencil skirt and a blouse that seemed at least two sizes too small. “Can I help you?” he asked. She turned and looked at him, her eyes lighting up at the offer.
“Yeah, hi,” she said, smiling. “I can’t seem to get this new software to work. Can you help me?”
“Sure,” he said. “Kate, right?” She nodded, turned and walked toward her desk, his eyes fixated on her firm, peachy ass.
Jamie leaned against her desk, looking at the screen. “Here’s your problem,” he said. “Right here.” He leaned over, his hand brushing against her shoulder as he reached for the keyboard. He stroked at the keys like a concert pianist before stepping back. “Now you try,” he said. She sat typing away, pointing with enthusiasm at the stats as they popped up on screen. Casually, he kept looking down her blouse. Those buttons must be about ready to burst, he thought. Like two happy zeppelins. Kate was talking, but her words faded softly into the background. Eventually, he snapped out of it. “Everything seem okay then?” he asked, hoping the question was somehow applicable.
“Absolutely,” she said, her eyes glancing up and down over his body. “Are you about ready for lunch?”
Jamie and Kate lay in bed together, the sheets soaked with sweat and other unmentionable bodily fluids. He looked over at the clock. 00:23. “I’m beat,” she said.
He smiled. “Me too.”
Kate climbed out of bed, wrapping herself in the bedsheet, fumbling on the floor for her underwear. Jamie sat up. “Going somewhere?” he asked. “I mean, you can stay if you’d like.”
She stood up, slipping on the black lace north and south. “Thanks. I would, honestly, but I don’t have any clothes here or anything. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” he said. Kate walked around the room, picking up her clothes and her shoes. As she bent over, he stared at the full extent of her exposed cleavage. You lucky fuck, he thought. Before long, he stood up, retrieved his boxers, and went into the kitchen. “D’you want a cup of coffee or something?” he asked, calling through to the bedroom. “Before you go, I mean.” Kate walked into the kitchen, the buttons of her blouse still undone.
“Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.”
Kate said her goodbyes at the door before kissing him on the cheek, thrusting a piece of paper into his hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. Quickly, he glanced at the paper. It was her phonenumber, scrawled down in red ink. Like the markings on an exam. After she left, he went into the kitchen and looked out the window. She walked down the steps and onto the street, the wind whipping at her already messy hair. Jamie walked into the bedroom, leaving her number next to the clock, then he showered and crawled into bed, her sweet scent hanging softly on the pillow.
“She’s quite the catch,” said Kojak. Jamie opened his eyes, and there he stood, gazing at him from the foot of the bed like an emerald monolith. “Yeah, I’m here,” he said. Jamie sat up, reaching for the sheets to hide his face under, but they were gone. The room was abnormally warm.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice wrenched with desperation.
Kojak reached into his front pocket, bringing out a lollipop. He unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth, the plastic wrapper creaking on the floor like a blossoming flower. “More to the point,” he said, sucking on the hard candy with every pause, “what do youme?” want from
“I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t.”
Kojak looked at him side-on. “Are you sure about that?”
Jamie looked around the room. Everything was there but not there, as if looking at a painting. He drew his knees up to his chin, hugging them for dear life. “What do I have to do?”
Kojak crunched the lollipop and dropped the stick to the ground, wiping his hands as if there were crumbs. He swallowed. “I think the way to look at this,” said Kojak, “is to look at it like it’s some sort of test.”
“A test?”
“A test, yes.” He sat at the foot of the bed, looking out the window. “Y’see, it’s your mind that’s presented you with this challenge. I don’t think avoiding the problem is going to do you much good.”
Jamie swung himself round, dangling his legs over the side of the bed. He seemed to be several feet from the ground. “But surely Kate answered that question,” he said. “Surely that’s proof enough.”
Kojak let out a billowing laugh, his throat undulating under every chortle. He looked like a giant frog. “The proof,” he said, “is most definitely not in the pudding.”
Jamie sighed, looking at his feet. “Is this the only way?”
Kojak nodded, his hands thrust into his silky pockets. “‘Fraid so, kid.” He brought out his hands, once again cracking his neck and his fingers. “Who knows,” he said, “you might like it.”
Jamie looked back at the ground. It was normal. After a moment, he stood up, turned, and faced Kojak straight on. Kojak took off his robe, exposing his round, well-earned stomach. Fuck it, he thought. Jamie walked over and grabbed him by the back of the head, like someone testing the ripeness of a melon, and he kissed him firmly on the lips. A few seconds later, he pulled back. Kojak was wearing his robe again. He pulled a cigarillo from his front pocket and handed it to Jamie, then he took out another for himself. “Congratulations, kid,” said Kojak. “You’re off the hook.” They stood in the middle of the room, smoking with a sense of relief. After a while, the walls melted away and the moonlight turned into a soft spring day, the faint sound of birds chirping in the distance.
When he woke up, the clock read 09:00
In a rush, he grabbed some clothes from the closet and threw them on. No time for exercise, he thought. At least I showered last night. Like an athlete, he sprinted down the stairs, out the door and onto a bus, each breath raking at his chest. Before long, he got off and signed in at the desk, running up the stairs, his face red from exertion. At his desk, Gary sat at his computer. “The prodigal son returns.”
“Sorry,” he said, “I slept in.”
“I can see that,” said Gary, “and with good reason.” He pointed at his neck. “So who’s the lucky girl then?”
Jamie stood at the desk, his eyes scanning round the office. “Where is she?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Kate, where is she?”
“Oh, the temp? She got recalled this morning. New assignment I guess, I dunno. Why?” Jamie stood with his hands on his knees, still recovering from the impromptu workout. “No way,” he said, smiling. “Her?”Gary held his hands in front of his chest, mimicking an impossibly large set of breasts.
“Yeah, well.”
He punched him on the arm. “You fucker,” he said. “She did look pretty beat.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Like what?”
Jamie sighed. “I don’t know, like, did she ask where I was?”
Gary swung round in his chair, holding a pen in his hand like a cigarette. “She was in and outta here by eight-thirty,” he said. “Why, d’you miss her?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “She’s certainly different.”
“You got that right. D’you get her number?”
Jamie smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “and I didn’t even have to ask.”
Gary pointed the pen at him. “There you go, broski. This could be the start of something beautiful. Assuming Kojak doesn’t mind.”
“Nah,” he said, “I don’t think he will.”
Jamie opened the door, ambling into the hallway, his hands filled with shopping bags. Arms aching, he shuffled into the kitchen, dropping the bags heavily on the counter. After unpacking, he made himself a sandwich and sat down on the couch. The television chattered dryly in the background, but all he could think of was Kate.
He went into the bedroom, picked up her number, and sat back down on the couch. He held the phone in his hand, deliberating.
Fuck it, he thought.
It rang. She answered.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” he said, “it’s me.”
“Hey you,” she said, her voice brightening.
For a second, he hesitated. Then he said: “I was just wondering-”
“I’d love to,” she said. “Tomorrow?”
He smiled, punching the air in victory. “Tomorrow would be great. Meet you here? Around eight?”
“Eight sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
“Alright then. Bye.”
The line went dead. He sat there, phone in hand, not quite sure of what to say. Lucky fucker indeed, he said.
That night, he dreamt that he was a young boy camping in the woods. The sky was bright but the air was cold and his breath plumed softly before him. In the trees were the dark outline of birds, their song piercing the long-still silence. He sat on the ground watching his father build a fire. As the sun was failing, cold descended through the trees and it spread throughout the wood. Cold enough to crack stone. He sat near-chattering when his father wrapped him in a blanket and then a sleeping bag before walking off toward the fire. He watched as he placed a blackened pot over the dwindling flames, the dry wood cracking and sending a cloud of thin smoke high into the air. They blew onto their numb hands to breathe the life back into them and they warmed side by side in a perfect silence. An unspoken awe between the two. When the night came, they sat huddled by the orange glow of the fire as if it were their own sun and after a while they fell asleep.
By time I decided to go for a walk, it was already 4.30 in the morning. I like walking at night; it clears the head. The streets are empty and as silent as a churchyard and the only sound you’re likely to hear is the sound of your own footsteps. That night, the rain was beating down, but there was next to no wind. Perfect weather. I sat on the couch as I laced up my shoes and I grabbed my jacket from the hall before heading out the door.
I started taking these walks around a year ago, around the time my wife had died. Everyone said that I was taking things remarkably well – almost too well – but I didn’t know how else to react. Sure, if asked beforehand, I might have expected my reaction to be a little more dramatic, but I can’t complain. By time she was diagnosed, it was too late to really do anything. I took the time off work and we holidayed together in Europe before coming back home. She died a few weeks later. At first she wanted to die at home, but just before the end she changed her mind. I’m not sure why. Maybe she didn’t want me to think of the house as some kind of mausoleum.
At the funeral, I was the most composed person in the whole family; the rest sat snivelling into their handkerchiefs like schoolchildren sat out in the cold. After me and the other pallbearers lay the coffin at the front, we sat and listened to her favourite song. It was a lovely service; there must have been at least two hundred people there. It was a secular service and she was cremated as per her wishes. She never specified what we should do with her ashes, so I scattered them on a beach not far from where we lived. I didn’t like keeping them in the urn. It didn’t seem fair.
The rain was really lashing down now. I could feel my trousers sticking to my legs as I walked headlong into the wind. The sky was more blue than black and I thought it must be turning into morning. Real morning, I mean. Maybe not, though. I could still see the stars. After a while, the wind had eased and the rain slowed to a gentle tapping. I thought about lighting a cigarette, but I didn’t feel like stopping. I can’t explain it. So long as I kept on walking, I felt like I was doing something. Going somewhere. Where, I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s very important. I’m not the sort of person that likes to sit around doing nothing; I like to keep myself busy. I give myself little projects to fill my days with when I can’t think of anything else to do. Cut the grass, maybe, or stop that door from squeaking. But at night, when I can’t sleep, all I want to do is walk. For hours, sometimes. I must’ve been out for at least that long. Either way, all that mattered is that I kept on walking.
The sun was starting to come up, which made me wonder just how long I’d been walking for. I never wore a watch as I rarely found myself anywhere that didn’t have a clock at hand. What startled me the most is where I ended up. I was only a couple of minutes away from the beach. I heard the sea before I realised where I was, but the thought of it didn’t seem to process. I hadn’t even noticed it had stopped raining. When I arrived at the beach, the tide had all but lowered and the horizon looked like the spilled innards of a lava lamp. I walked along the promenade a little before leaning against the barrier. I looked up and down but I couldn’t remember where I had scattered the ashes. I guess it didn’t really matter. I pulled down the hood of my jacket and I breathed in the fresh sea air. It was pretty cold, but I liked how it felt. I could taste the salt on my lips.
After a while, I decided to hop over the barrier. I took off my soaked shoes and sodden socks and I rolled my trousers to the knee before walking down to the water. The sand was still damp from the rain and the sea but it was still fine and granular. I picked up a handful and let it sift through my fingers as it blew away in the wind. I sat down and tied the laces of my shoes together and I stuffed the socks into them before hanging them around my neck. I ambled down toward the water and I let it wash over my bare feet. It was deathly cold. Still, I stood there, splashing my feet like a child in summer, listening to the roll of the surf and the swish of the wind. I took off my jacket and dropped it to the sand and it blew away like a polystyrene bag as I held my arms aloft, feeling the wind and the spray of the sea whip at my face. Before long, I walked along the beach to get my jacket and I walked back to where I’d hopped over. I sat on a bench and I looked out at the sea and the rising sun and it’s only then when I realised just how much I missed my wife. She would have loved this place, I thought. I don’t know why we didn’t come here before. I started to cry, but above all I was pretty thankful. Now this place has meaning. After a while I stood up and I walked barefoot along the promenade, whistling her favourite song, trying to remember the way home.
As he lay on the cold stone floor he heard the sound of footsteps approaching his cell, the heavy smack of boots on concrete gradually getting louder. He awoke from a dream of vague colour and a time now unfamiliar to him, as if a voyeur watching life through someone else’s eyes. The heavy gunmetal door of the cell shuddered under the thud of two kicks at its base and he stood up and faced the wall opposite, both hands interlocked behind his head. The door swung open and the usual duo of guards entered the cell, one pressing a riflebarrel against the back of his head, the other placing a worn plastic tray on the floor. They backed out, wordless and in unison, slamming the door with deliberate force. The door was kicked again and he turned to investigate the tray, but it was nothing out of the ordinary: A lump of hard bread. A small cup of lukewarm water. A washcloth. Shit, he said, same old, same old.
John stood in the middle of the cell, stretching to touch the walls either side of him. He bent and picked up his half-eaten bread and he chewed it slowly, walking barefoot in slow circles around the cell. So, he thought. What are we doing today? He dropped to one knee and he eased himself forward into a press-up position, shuffling his feet backward and his arms out wide. Make it a hundred, he said. Let’s go. He started at a slow pace, gradually building speed, keeping his breathing at a steady rhythm. Counting, coughing. Before long he stopped, resting his head on the cool stone. That’s alright, he said. Who’s counting anyway. Rolling onto his back, he lay himself flat, trying to catch his breath. His eyes peered deep into the cracked grey ceiling. Before long he drifted into a near-dream, his mind wandering from one figment to another. The rolling surf over his feet, the ocean spray soothing his face. A woodland clearing in summer. A busy street with innumerable voices. Alright, he said. Enough of that.
He sat slouched against the wall opposite the door tapping some unknown rhythm with his feet when he heard the boots of the guards approaching the cell. The door shook under the double kick, and he stood up again to face the wall. “Comida, levántate!” He stood as the two guards opened the door and entered the cell, one pointing a rifle at him, the other replacing the tray with a bowl of rice and more water. About time, he muttered. “Indoro?” John turned his head and nodded to the guard. A heavy cotton hood was placed over his head and he was lead out of the cell and down a silent corridor. Cold concrete underfoot. Thirty paces. A wooden door in front of him was hit twice before being opened, the bottom scraping along the ground. A faint breeze. Humid. The ground now soft and damp, like wet grass. The sound of rustling leaves. A guard led him behind a tree and prodded him in the back with his rifle. When he finished, the guard took him back to his cell and took off the hood and closed the door behind him.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, eating handfuls of rice and making patterns with his finger in his fading wet footprints. Lines and crosses, a circle. A smiling face. He finished what was left of the rice and drank most of the water, rubbing the rest in his eyes and his teeth, then he lay on his side with his arm under his head and he thought of the freedom that seemed so alien to him. He tried to picture the world outside but when he did all he could think of was the sadness he felt at not being a part of it. Eventually he slept and his dreams were of a tumultuous darkness and when he awoke he felt no better.
II
He woke with a dull remnant of a dream stuck in his head. Only the feeling of it left over. He tried to recall the faces of those long gone. His father, past girlfriends. Then he’d try the places, but he could only remember vague colours, like the memory of a child. He opened his eyes. After a few weeks he realised the cell was longer than it was wide by what seemed no more than a foot. Maybe more. He sat at one end and peered down the makeshift corridor and he let his eyes wander out of focus. The walls at either side would contract and expand and the grey slab opposite would slide away and back again before he realised his mind was playing tricks on him. As if realising you’re flying in a dream before you fall toward the sea.
John sat silently against the wall of the cell, running a hand through his lank and matted hair. He stared blankly in front of him, trying to see beyond the stone into a world just out of focus. His back was knotted from months of sleeping on the floor and his body was a withered shell of its former self, like bones covered in a pale sheet. His eyes sat deep in his worn face, a beard scarcely covering his gaunt cheekbones. On the wall to his left were the tallied scratchmarks for which the guards beat him when they noticed. Any minute now, he said. He dragged himself to his feet and he faced the wall at the sound of the guards walking toward the cell, their boots echoing in the corridor like a distant drum. The door was kicked and then opened and he was brought to his knees by a blow to the back of his neck, the pain rising in him like a hot shard. A second guard placed a hood over his head and held him as the other beat him, his cries muffled through the dark and heavy cotton. A taste of iron settled in his mouth before he was hit in the head with the butt of a rifle and dragged motionless from the cold dark silence of the cell.
He opened his eyes to an unwavering blackness, the bloodsoaked cotton of the hood sticking to his face like plaster. He tried to move his arms and his legs, but they were bound tightly to a hardwood chair. He tried to force himself free but the pain swelled sharply, his fingers grating on the armrest. Calm down, he thought. Think. He tried to pierce the darkness with his hearing but all he could think of was his unbearable thirst. Concentrate. Distant footsteps. Somewhere behind him a door opened and he heard the familiar sound of boots approaching, farther than usual. They stopped. “Agua,” he pleaded, laboriously. “Agua. Por favor.” The guard turned and shouted into the corridor and another backed through the door. Something being dragged along the floor. It was dropped heavily behind him and the hood was taken from his head. The guard in front nodded to the other and he came round with a cup of water. “Sediento?” “Si.” He opened his mouth and the guard tipped the cup slowly, the water relieving him only slightly. The guards walked behind and spoke among themselves before one left the cell and the other stood in front of him. His mouth still bloodied and his left eye bruised. The guard stood staring at him and he tried to make eye contact but he felt as if he was somehow doing something wrong. The other guard returned with a tray holding the usual contents and they untied his arms and his legs before backing out, closing the door behind them.
As he sat in the chair, he began to realise just how much bigger the new room was compared to the cell. He rubbed his wrists, strangely in awe of his new surroundings. Leaning forward, he tore off a piece of bread and dabbed the washcloth in the water before rubbing his face, the dried blood staining the cotton pink. He rubbed his swollen eye and grimaced as the wet cloth passed over his bruised skin. He finished what was left of the water and he rose slowly from the chair, his ribs aching sharply when he stood up straight. Turning to investigate the room, he discovered that it was essentially a bigger version of the cell: the same cracked concrete and monochrome colours save the dull red of the door. He stopped dead. On the floor behind the chair lay a man, unconscious and beaten. His head was covered with an earthstained hood reddened around the mouth and his hands were tied behind his back with rope. He stood for a moment, his eyes never leaving the curious mass before him. He prodded the man with his foot but he didn’t stir. Alright, he said. Let’s just think about this.
He went to the chair and turned it before sitting down, dulling the pain in his side. Before long he stood up again and he approached the man, rolling him over onto his back. He pulled the hood from his head. Christ, he thought. Underneath the hood and the bruising and the dried blood was the face of a young man, barely twenty years old, his chin stubbled and gashed. His skin was of a dark complexion and his hair was thick and black. He dragged him from behind the chair to a wall and he propped him up against it. The man was barefoot and wearing overalls similar to his own, pocketless and torn. He thought about untying his hands but he didn’t. The man stirred. He took a step back and eyed him, but in the end he barely moved. “Are you alright?”
A guard opened the door as John stood facing the wall and they entered the room, placing the trays on the floor. A guard approached the unconscious man, feeling for his pulse. He tried to turn his head to see what was happening, but instead he caught the eye of the guard near the door. They spoke amongst themselves and before long they left. He turned and thought about shouting to the guards but in the end he said nothing. He looked at the man leaning against the wall, his hands still tied behind his back. Who are you? he thought. The man stirred again. John stood watching him as he noticed the man’s eyes half-opening, his mouth moving slightly. He went over to the tray lying next to the man and he took the cup of water and he kneeled in front of him. “What is it?” he asked. The man tried to speak but he couldn’t, his lips dried and cracked like sunburn. He put the cup to the man’s mouth and tipped it slowly. “It’s alright,” he said, “drink this.” The man swallowed the water sharply as if his throat were coated with rust. He mouthed at him for more. He tried to look up at him but he struggled to open his eyes. Like some newborn animal. “Are you hungry?” The man didn’t answer and he slid onto his side and passed out. John untied his hands and propped him up against the wall before putting the cup of water back onto the tray. He picked up the washcloth and he dabbed at the man’s temple and his mouth, washing away the dirt and the blood. The man’s head dropped forward as if collapsing under its own weight and he uttered half-formed words into the cell that seemed to hang in the air like vapour. John stood watching him and he thought about how this was the first man he’d seen other than the guards in what must be close to a year. Maybe the last. He stood and he listened to the man’s mumbled words and he wondered what he should do next.
III
The darkness and the silence of the cell was broken as the door swung open, its metal frame crashing violently against the stone wall. John stood quickly but he collapsed against the wall in a haze. A shock of light pierced his half-closed eyes as he tried to regain his bearings. Two guards ran into the cell and went straight for the man sprawled along the floor. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice dull and serrated. A guard turned and pointed with his rifle and the other dragged the man to the corridor by his feet. He stood watching. He waited until they left before hurrying toward the door. He pressed his ear against it. Nothing. As he crouched next to the metal frame his ears began to ring and he was overcome with dizziness. He fell back against the door and slid down, his frail heart beating visibly under his chest. He reached for his half-empty cup and drank with a razorous convulsion. His head began to clear when he heard something through the door. Shouting, screaming. He rose to his feet and began beating on the door. A gunshot. Silence. He tried to pound on the door once more but instead he dropped to his knees and began coughing, a red mist gluing itself between the cracks in the floor.
Hours had passed before the guards returned to the cell. John lay on his back, barely registering the sounds coming from the door. It opened. Two guards entered with their rifles pointed downward. He stayed still. They pulled his subdued body to its feet and he slumped forward as they led him out. Once he was in the corridor they placed a hood over his head. They took him toward the heavy wooden door and opened it, a cold wind rushing through the gap. It was nighttime. He could feel it. They prodded him in the back and then pushed him to his knees, the ground beneath him soft and damp. His heart pounded in his chest. The sound of a rifle being cocked behind him. He dropped forward and clutched his arm. The guards shouted and threatened him as he lay shuddering on the cool dewed grass. They took off his hood and stood over him and after a while they walked away. His ears were filled with a high-pitch drone and then he lay still, his eyes wide and mouth hung open. In the air, the sound of wind and the threat of rain to come.
I sit in the livingroom watching television, but there’s nothing on. The clock struts rhythmically on the mantelpiece and I can’t help but listen intently, like it has something to say. It’s a little after six in the morning and it’s a wasted night leading into another wasted day. As per usual, I try to write, but the ideas seem dried up, like a reservoir during a hot summer drought. I decide to throw my shoes on and go for a walk to the 24-hour supermarket.
I stroll up and down the aisles, the bottom of my jeans frayed and wet from the cold, hard rain. My socks feel damp thanks to the holes in the bottom of my shoes. It’s just after seven in the morning and already there’s a young mother pushing a pram behind me. She looks about as lost as I do. I decide to leave. It seems like a good idea.
And so to bed.
My eyes won’t close. They can’t. The dull shuffle of the woman upstairs echoes in my head, and I’m pretty sure I can hear my fridge from three rooms away. The mail comes through the door. I have to admit, it startled me. I stand up and look at it. I’m not sure how many letters came today; I haven’t read any in a while. It just sits there, mounting up into a pile of white and brown annoyance. At least a couple are from the bank, I can recognise the postmark from here. I pick them up and walk into the livingroom and I drop them on the table, placing them there like it’s mail purgatory. I doubt I’ll read them.
Still, I guess I’d better go to the bank.
Ordinarily I’d be pissed at having to go back out so soon after getting home, but it’s not like I have anything better to do. I arrive at the bank with an old statement I brought so I can read my account details from it without too much inquisition. A while later the bank manager walks out and we have a frank discussion. He tells me that I’m way behind with my repayments and my bank account is far into the red. I tell him my mother died and I need to pay for the funeral arrangements. Like a sympathetic schoolteacher, he frowns and softly lectures me about how I should’ve mentioned something sooner, but he gives me some more time and an extension on my overdraft. Funeral wreaths are expensive these days.
When I get home, I slump down in my chair and flick on the television. I sit and watch the news, but none of it seems to process. I feel like an island – no, too poetic, a fucking traffic island – the whole world is speeding by, and here I am, sat slap bang in the middle of it.
I go to the kitchen and into the freezer and I take out some quickcook meal. I put it in the oven and consider making something to go with it on the side but I don’t bother. I go back to the livingroom and sit down before leaning over to pick up the mail from the table. I thumb them open one by one, guessing with a strange sense of accuracy as to what lies inside. Two are from the bank, as suspected. One is a telephone bill – next to nothing I assume – and the other is the internet bill. It’s the same company, why don’t they just send it in the same envelope? The rest are an assortment of junkmail, be it car insurance or low-interest loans, and the odd 0% creditcard advertisement. I tear each one twice and throw them in the bin.
Habitually, I throw my attention back toward the television. I flick between the channels like I expect to find something until I land on something random. A cookery show. Two amateurs coached by their professional peers, engaging in some lighthearted competition. I sit and watch the entire show, or at least what’s left of it. The chef with the moustache – I forget his name – wins and the semi-attractive blonde on the other side congratulates him. All smiles. To be honest, the food doesn’t look particularly appetising. Too much presentation. Perhaps if they spent as much time eating it as they did preparing it, they’d get twice as much satisfaction.
Speaking of which.
I go into the oven and bring out my meal. Two unidentifiable slabs of meat. Chicken? Regardless, it looks nothing like the picture on the box. A fair shade blacker. Still, I put it on a plate and take it into the livingroom before switching to the neutrality of the news channel as I eat.
It’s fast approaching eleven o’clock. I decide to go for a shower. It’s weird how you seem to be that bit grimier when you don’t sleep compared to when you lie stagnating for eight-or-so hours in roughly the same position. Maybe it’s all in my head, or maybe I just collect dirt the more places I go, like an overused washcloth. The hot water needles at my face and I scrub at my hair and my feet and everything else in between. When I get out, I put my t-shirt, boxers and still-wet jeans into the washingmachine and I throw on some new things from the cupboard. My socks are still stuffed into the shoes by the chair.
It’s officially afternoon. Guess I better do something. I decide to walk to the cornershop near me to buy some cigarettes. I try to cut back as best I can but, to be honest, there’s a time and a place for self-preservation, and this isn’t it. I pay my dues and nod a thankyou and I light one up at the third attempt as soon as I leave the store. I probably should’ve bought a better lighter, but it’ll do. It takes me around two cigarettes to walk back home.
I decided to go to my bedroom rather than the livingroom as a change of pace. I pick up my book and I start reading under the lamplight. I could just as easily open the curtains, but I can’t seem to read when I know it’s daytime. It’s a Murakami shortstory collection. One of them is about a guy who goes back to his apartment in Tokyo to find a giant frog – Super Frog – waiting there for him. Before long he accepts his existence and agrees to help Super Frog defeat a giant worm that’s causing massive earthquakes around the city. Typical. I read that and the rest of the stories in the book and I start one of his novels but I start to feel hungry so I go back to the kitchen.
Cornflakes seem like a good mid-afternoon snack. It’s too early to make anything bigger and to be honest I can’t really be bothered. Granted, it’s arguably too late for cornflakes, but who’s here to argue. I sit with the bowl cradled to my chest as I open my laptop to check the news. I could just turn on the TV and do the same with the addition of moving pictures and stern correspondence, but this mixes it up a little. I go to the website and open some anonymous headline article and I read the few paragraphs that fit on screen as I eat my cornflakes before scrolling down and eating some more. The bowl lasts for around two-and-a-half articles, and so do I. I close it over and slide it underneath the table before opening the back door and having a couple more cigarettes. I can see the trees blowing in the wind and the birds diving like trombone slides and fluttering their wings like the plucking of a harp. I shift focus to the end of the cigarette hanging from my mouth. I only notice the light rain from the wet paper hissing as I inhale. I rake it down the wall and toss it before closing the door and going into the fridge.
What to have? I take out some bacon and rip off four sheets of kitchenroll. I put the bacon on top of two sheets and I rest the other two on top and I put it in the microwave for three minutes. Quicker than frying. To fill the time I take out some bread and spread ketchup on them and, noticing I still have a minute-or-so left, I take out a plate and rip off a fresh sheet. I open the door before it beeps and I grab the browned and steaming sheets by the edge, ferrying it over to the tabletop. I take off the top two and dab at the bacon to rid of the excess and I put them on the bread and take the plate through to the bedroom.
I take around three bites before putting it in the bin.
I scan my bookshelves for something else to read but nothing catches my eye. Then I look at my DVDs and it’s much the same story. I pull back the curtains slightly and look out the window. It seems to have stopped raining, but the wind isn’t letting up. I take out a fresh pair of socks and put them on before taking the old ones out my shoes and heading out the door.
Off the top of my head, there’s absolutely nowhere of note to go. I walk to the shop and buy a new lighter, one that won’t give up at the slightest wisp of air. I throw the old one in the bin and decide to walk toward the trainstation. I have absolutely no intention of getting a train – in fact, I don’t even have enough money on me even if I wanted to – but at least it’s a destination. I get there, scan the area, look at my watchless wrist and then start to head back.
I sit down in the chair, kicking off my shoes. I slide open the drawer and take out a small black phonebook. I scan through it, wondering how many of these numbers must be defunct. I spot at least two people who I’m sure are dead, and the rest I haven’t spoke to in the longest time. I catch sight of a name I consider calling but in the end I just put it back on the drawer and I look up at the clock. If it’s any consolation, it’s already half seven.
I pick up my laptop from under the table and I open it up again. I decide to go onto a music website to see what’s new, but I’m not sure why I bothered. After that I decide to open up Winamp. I consider Mogwai but I can’t put on an album without something heavy startling me halfway through. Sigur Ros is overlistened, and none of the movie scores seem appropriate. In the end I settle on some Radiohead, but I can’t seem to enjoy it. Nothing seems to fit.
As certain as eight leads into nine, I find myself once more at the back door, smoking a cigarette. The sky is much darker than it was earlier, but there’s certainly more signs of life. It’s too miserable for anyone to be out, but I can hear TVs blaring and stereos pumping inane tunes from more than a few places. The sound of cars driving to and fro seems to permeate the wind and the rattling of the trees sounds almost violent. I’m surprised my cupboards aren’t shaking.
After a while I realise that I’m merely hanging my head out the door without a cigarette in sight, so I close it and sit back in my chair. I turn on the TV and turn on the news. It’s a couple of minutes before nine, so the headlines should be on soon. The weather says that the wind is only going to get worse and that lightning might be brewing.
Finally, some excitement.
It’s a shame the same can’t be said for the news itself. All the stories are positively parliamentary, and not one part of it scandal or upheaval. The headlines lead into business then entertainment into sport, then it goes back to weather and the circle is completed.
Once again I hop from channel to channel in the hope of something worth paying attention to, but nothing springs to mind. It seems to be a strange time of year, somewhere in the no man’s land between sporting events and new seasons of worthwhile television.
I go back to my bedroom and pick up my book. The story seems to be switching from one person to another and then back again, but I don’t see how they’re linked. I guess that’s the point. In fact, I don’t know why I mention it, because I know they’ll cross paths somewhere down the line. They always do. Irrespective of their job, their race or their gender, they always meet up. Or else, what’s the point? Still, I can’t be bothered finding out at this time, so I only read a couple of chapters before giving up and lying down.
I’ve been lying in bed for around an hour. I don’t have a clock in here, so I can’t be sure. Either way, my thoughts have drifted from one thing to another, and not once have I had any respite. Even concentrating on the sound of the weather outside like it was The Sounds of the Rainforest on CD doesn’t seem to do the trick. But then I notice something. Silence. Total, unerring silence. I stand up and walk over to the curtain and I peer out the window. The rain has stopped and the wind has calmed to a gentle breeze. At least, as far as I can tell. I go to the back door and I open it up, and sure enough, the night is as still as bottled water.
I slip on my shoes and I sit on the steps before lighting a cigarette. Suddenly this lighter seems like a waste of money. Still, the wind blows gently and as it passes my ears it sounds like the gentle rumblings of a miniature earthquake. Moonlight reflects off the wet grass and glistens like a chandelier left at the back of a cave. I look up toward the sky and there’s a break in the clouds, letting a blanket of dark blue creep along my eyeline. I sit back and put my weight on my elbows as I dip my head back and listen to the sound of near-nothingness.
As my eyes feel heavy, I finish my cigarette and head back in the door. I read a few more chapters before turning off the lamp and laying my head against the pillow. A warm feeling starts to swell in the back of my mind. Outside, the wind starts to whip and the trees begin to buckle and I can hear the rain dancing upon the window.
As I was walking home, I had a random thought: what’s with all the hate for modern cinema? Granted, box office receipts have never been higher, and Avatar (2009) made close to three billion dollars all on its own, but that’s besides the point.
As far as I can tell, a lot of people are of the opinion that new, mainstream cinema – by ‘mainstream’, I mean films that aren't low- budget arthouse productions or the latest Vincent Cassell vehicle – is nothing compared to what it used to be. In the 70s, you had Star Wars (1977) and Jaws (1975). And now? Pirates of the Caribbean (2003) and Transformers (2007). Scorsese gave us Taxi Driver (1976) and Raging Bull (1980); Guy Ritchie gave us Revolver (2005) and RocknRolla (2008).
On the surface, you might think they have a point. Cinema has lost its originality! they say - after all, this is seemingly the age of remakes, reboots and franchise - but I’d like to say one thing: are you fucking kidding me?
If you take any general gathering of film fans and ask them who the greatest directors of all time are, once you filter our the ridiculous suggestions such as George Lucas and David Lynch, chances are the names Stanley Kubrick and Alfred Hitchcock will appear somewhere close to the top of the list. The latter is an undoubted pioneer in dramatic storytelling – after all, he is the ‘master of suspense’ – and the former is one of the most daring and original filmmakers to ever grace the world of cinema. We all know their work, so there’s no need to get into too much detail – I’d like to think we’ve all seen Rear Window (1954) and A Clockwork Orange (1971); Psycho (1960) and The Shining (1980) – and of course there’s no doubting their quality, but the amount of people who think that things “haven’t been the same since” – dare I say, uneducated people – concerns me.
Case in point: Ever heard the names Christopher Nolan and Paul Thomas Anderson?
You have? Good.
You haven’t? Oh dear.
Without doubt, neither of these directors are the underground, ‘arty’ types, but these days that’s what the general film-loving cretins see as a necessity to providing good cinema.
It’s fair to say that Nolan is the better known of the two, seeing as he's the man responsible for the reinvigoration of Warner’s fledgling Batman series with the excellent Batman Begins (2005) and the brilliant follow-up The Dark Knight (2008). On that evidence, it’s not out the question to think that all he ever does is churn out Hollywood fair – after all, they’ve grossed close to two billion dollars between them, and a concluding third film is on the way – but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Nolan first made a name for himself with Memento (2000), the excellent non-linear-but-still-more-linear-than-most mindfuck of a film based upon the short story by his brother-come-writing partner Jonathan. Memento stars Guy Pearce as Leonard Shelby, a man with a rare form of amnesia trying to find the killer of his wife and the life that he knew. The problem with Leonard is not that he can’t remember anything, but the fact that he can’t form new memories: a few minutes after meeting someone, he’ll forget who they are and he’ll introduce himself all over again, and there’s even a scene where he’s running away from an armed man, but he forgets what he’s doing and assumes he’s actually chasing his pursuer, who in turn opens fire on him when he inexplicably starts running toward him.
Leonard’s body is covered in the different clues he has gathered throughout his investigation in the form of tattoos, and he takes photographs and makes notes about the people he meets along the way.
But that’s not the weird part.
The film is told in reverse chronology. Or rather, part of the film – shown in colour – is told in reverse chronology, whereas the monochrome scenes are interspliced throughout in a normal this-then-that order.
Confused? So was I, but the result is a wonderfully crafted and genuinely original – yes, believe it or not, original – piece of storytelling, utterly captivating and insanely rewatchable. Memento goes far beyond the gimmick of its own layout: the story is genuinely moving, and the performances from the cast as a whole are excellent. This is the result of a legitimate filmmaker making a real diamond of a movie. And the best part? It came out this century.
And then we have Paul Thomas Anderson.
Anderson came to prominence with Boogie Nights (1996), the story of the rise and fall of fictional pornstar Dirk Diggler and the industry he thrived upon throughout the 70s and 80s. Penned by the man himself, a trait of his carried on throughout all his work, its unflinching portrayal of sex and drugs brought immediate comparisons to Quentin Tarantino and Martin Scorcese – the DVD cover even has the tear-inducingly inaccurate blurb of ‘Goodfellas meets Pulp Fiction’ – but it’s only with his follow-ups that he became a truly undoubted original.
Magnolia (1999) is a sprawling, intertwining epic set in modern Los Angeles. Clocking in at around the three-hour mark, it takes place in the San Fernando Valley district, following a myriad of main characters through a segment of their own complicated lives, each of them linked in one way or another. Be it the story of motivational sexspeaker and televagilist Frank Mackey, terminally-ill quiz show host Jimmy Gator, or lovelorn cop Jim Kurring, the story is expertly written and directed with the sort of searing confidence and daring ingenuity – raining frogs and a cast singalong, anyone? – that only a seemingly-chosen few are blessed with.
I also think it’s worth noting that Anderson was only 28 when made this. Yes, two-eight.
Still, at such a relatively tender age, he managed to gather an ensemble cast of some of Hollywood’s finest – Tom Cruise, William H. Macy, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Julianne Moore to name but a few – and match them up perfectly with the characters.
For me, and this may be down to a lack of skill on my part, Magnolia is the kind of film that is very hard to describe without spilling the beans or failing to do it justice, but this really is a film of films so well crafted your jaw will drop and your heart will flutter with sheer awe.
Of course, that’s only a snippet of these directors and their back catalogue.
Along with Memento and the Batman movies, Nolan also directed the outstanding The Prestige (2006), a tale of two warring magicians and the world they inhabit - a world of deceit and unwavering one-upmanship, whatever the cost.
Insomnia (2002) is a film which achieves the commendable feat of being an American remake easily on a par with its foreign counterpart. It’s the story of a sleepless and degrading police officer struggling to acclimatise himself to the perpetual sunlight of northern Alaska, all the while investigating the murder of a young woman killed by a man who, in turn, has dirt on the cop himself.
Admittedly, I haven’t seen it all. His mega-low budget debut Following (1998) is something I haven’t been able to get my hands on et, and the upcoming Inception (2010) is a hush-hush whatthefuckisthatabout film set in the world of dreams and espionage. Sounds pretty good to me.
Anderson debuted with Hard Eight (1995) (Or Sydney, if you want to go with the director's original intention), the story of a down-and-out man taken under the wing of a wisened gambler with a secret who teaches him how to beat the odds, in turn becoming the man’s father figure. It’s by far the most underrated of his movies, and it’s a genuinely touching tale of love and responsibility.
Punch-Drunk Love (2002) is the bizarre love story of a man with anger issues, constantly berated by his sisters, one of whom has a friend he takes a shine to. That piss-poor synopsis really cannot describe the weirdness and originality of how it all plays out, and it’s definitely one to rewatch to fully digest what it is you just witnessed.
And now comes the one which some may be surprised to see I didn’t mention in the first place. There Will Be Blood (2007) is the multi-award winning saga of Daniel Plainview – portrayed to perfection by the literal genius of Daniel Day-Lewis – a turn-of-the-century oilman driven to extreme lengths by his own masochist greed. The more he succeeds, the more his humanity slips away, and his rivalry with the young preacher who is as much of a bullshitter as he is and the distance between the man and his son serves as the ideal catalyst. Absolutely essential viewing.
His next project is the tentatively titled The Master (TBA), a loose satire based on L. Ron Hubbard and the rise of Scientology, the theme of fatherhood somewhere in the mix.
To sum up, the reason I’ve so vigorously fellated the two is to show that there is quality left in the world of cinema, and there is something underneath the faecal matter of laborious CGI-fests that seemingly feature less character-driven plot than a blank sheet of ice.
Hitchcock was the original auteur of suspense, intrigue and thrills. As the plot of The Prestige unfolds, or as Memento’s ass-backwards format finally starts to make sense in your head, are you really going to sit there and tell me you don’t want to know how it pans out?
Kubrick was absolutely unrivalled at painting an original cinematic picture and challenging the audience to broaden their horizons, making them sit up and appreciate great cinematography without them even realising it. The symmetry and scale of 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) is just as striking and original as the sprawling oilfields of There Will Be Blood, or the neon-tinged, coke-fuelled era of Boogie Nights, not to mention the simultaneous horror and beauty of suburban modern America in Magnolia.
Of course, those two are just an example. Kudos has to go to David Fincher, Darren Aronofsky, Steven Soderbergh, (early) M. Night Shyamalan et al for countering the supreme bollocks of McG, Michael Bay, Brett Ratner and all the other whogivesafucktheyreshite directors of the modern era.
With the pair merely on the brink of their forties, and both of them surely being the leading light of film for years to come, surely there's more enough reason to be thankful for the state of modern moviemaking.
