The Misanthrope Comes Around

…They say she’s going to kill me.
But they don’t know her like I do. They haven’t seen her hair shining in the streetlights. They haven’t felt her shoulders, or seen the way her dresses always make her breasts look absolutely perfect. They haven’t kissed her stomach. They haven’t felt the damn near holy ecstasy of being inside her. They haven’t felt those long, slender legs brush up against them while she slept.
They don’t call me crazy.
But I can tell they’re thinking it. Every time they come, spitting their preachy diatribes at me, they all have that look in their eye. That look of cautious fear, fear of saying the wrong thing and sending me over some edge upon which they’re convinced I perched myself. They think I’m dangerous.
They do call me “addict.”

Making Noir.

Daunting is the task of making a mark on the film noir genre as a filmmaker. Creating something original in a style that’s been done so much and so well is far from easy. To avoid the poisonous label of “cliche,” it becomes necessary to push the envelope, to test the boundaries of the genre, and take it to places none would think to bring it. A noir set in the wild west, for example, or a noir about clowns and their horrifying world. My vision for a noir is more abstract. My idea is an introspective and personal story about a young man in the throes of an addiction.

With regard to the matter of “when,” I’d like the film to have a timeless quality about it, so the time period won’t be specified. It will have a contemporary setting, but feature various anachronisms, such as the protagonist wearing modern clothing, but having a hi-fi record player and a black & white television.

The location shouldn’t be specified, either. The setting should feel like “Anywhere, USA” in that this could be taking place in anyone’s hometown. Most of the action will be taking place inside the addict’s room, where he will face his internal demons, as well as other characters who come to visit him, be it to comfort or to reproach.

Using established actors would, I think, be a misstep. Because I want this to seem new and unfamiliar, using unknown actors would go a long way. I would love to play the protagonistic addict . Most of the other roles are minor; the only other important character is the addiction itself, personified by a gorgeous femme fatale.

Here’s the plot development: The action predominantly takes place in the addict’s room, driven by his internal monologues. Whenever he feds his addiction, though, he goes to another place: a world of black & white, or suits and fedoras. A world of classic noir, where he confronts a gorgeous and dangerous woman, the personification of his addiction. After a time he is snapped back to reality to lament his predicament.

The narrative will be driven by internal monologues, as well as speeches from visiting characters directed at the addict. The only dialogue will occur in the black & white addiction world. My ultimate goal is to have the real world to seem more surreal and dreamlike than the addiction world.

Aesthetically, as I’ve said, part of the film will be monochromatic, but the rest of the film, while in color, will be very washed-out, having a bleak feeling about it. On the other hand, the black & white scenes will be in very rich shades, with dark blacks and intense whites, so that they seem more vivid than the real world.

Being the fan of anachronisms that I am, I would love to have contemporary alternative rock playing in the classic-looking addiction world, and perhaps even in the real world. The music, in fact, could tie the worlds together; the same song that’s playing in his room would as he sates the addiction would be playing in his Packard when he goes to his other world.

These are the ideas that came to me. I can’t explain exactly why, but I can say that I want to do something different, push the perceptions of what noir can be. I want to make a film that hasn’t been done a hundred times already. The dramatic “man vs. self” conflict is one I’ve always found most fascinating, and a chance to play with that idea is one I’d love to take.

I have to hand in this pitch to my film professor. If he likes it enough, I may ask him to help me expand it. Who knows, I may even punch up a screenplay. Stranger things have happened…

Ode.

She’d looked at me coyly and called me a scoundrel. I could only smile and say, “I try not to be.” I’d never met anyone like her before. Her abundant bracelets and large necklace earned her the nickname “Egypt” across the party, but I simply called her “Temptress,” for her penetrating eyes were making me belong to her, and she knew it, even though I didn’t show it. The kitchen floor was slick and when she started to fall I caught her, and for a moment we looked for all the world like Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. I told her that every eye in the room was on her, but none looked on her so reverently as my own. Oh… just a kiss from here I desired the way most men desire taking a woman all the way. She liked to test me: to see if I would make out with another fellow to see her kiss her friend. I declined, saying I was no whore. Right answer. She wanted to see if I’d kiss a man if a kiss from her was the prize. I said no, saying I would rather she’d kiss me on my own merit. She penetrated me with her eyes, smiled and said, “I’d kiss you.” She asked me if I read Jack Kerouac, and sat down on an open windowsill. She leaned back, out the window, and I pulled her back in. As I did, she kissed me. In spite of the rum we’d shared, this was my intoxicant. Her scent, her taste, the tactile pleasure of her hips, her flat stomach and her ample bosom. I whispered that she truly was the temptress. Then and there I knew that no one would be good enough after this. She told me to call her my muse. She said she could inspire me. I told her she already had. And although in all likelihood we shall never meet again, I am forever hers. The Temptress. The Muse. The Goddess.

Commencement.

I’ve always been a big fan of the MYST computer games, ever since my father bought MYST for me as a present for making first communion. What I grew to love the most was how rich and expansive the back story of the series became. But what I always wanted to do was create a narrative from the perspective of the player character. The games practically beg for it; they use a “blank character” to make each user feel as though they themselves were experiencing the game. So then, why not write a narrative as though I were actually there, on MYST Island?

I ended up with a journal I hand-wrote in an old notebook, twenty-four pages on college-ruled paper in very small writing. I showed it to both fans of the game and those who’d never played it; each enjoyed reading it. Due to the fact that virtually every action in the game is based on puzzle-solving, I had to be careful to not fall into a trap of “Today I did this, which led me into this room, allowing me to push this button…” Instead, I made it much more cerebral, detailing what kind of toll actually being in such a place would take on one’s mind.
Unfortunately, I can’t really post it here, because I think being a handwritten work gives it a lot of aesthetic appeal.

What you’re about to read is the introduction to my narrative to Myst’s sequel, Riven. the quotes are not lines of my own invention, rather lines from the game itself. I haven’t written much else, but I think this is a good start.

“Thank God you’ve returned…”

Atrus, my friend, you look terrible. How many years have you lost to that book you toil over? Can you even count time in a prison such as this? Even with his Myst book restored, I have not once seen him return to the island since the punishment of his treacherous sons. I have been busy myself, though. I have spent months searching his four remaining Ages on Myst, desperately trying to find a trace of survivors to tell them that it was okay to return to their homes, that the abusive reign of Sirrus and Achenar is over, but my search was without fruition.

Having grown worried for his well-being, I came to D’Ni to check in on Atrus. The look of wearied relief on his face as his eyes rose to meet mine betrayed to me that all was not well.

“…I can’t send you to Riven with a way out…”

Riven, the fifth Age of his father, Gehn, and the current prison of his wife, Catherine, is in it’s final days. The repairs Atrus has been writing into the book cannot keep up with the decay, and now he needs me. He is sending me into a dying world with no Linking book back, only a prison book disguised as a link to D’Ni and orders to trap his mad father and rescue his wife.

I agree without hesitation.

“There’s also a chance, if this all goes well,
that I might be able t get you back to the place that you came from…”

The Puzzle.

Here’s something I wrote last Halloween that I passed around to my friends. I thought I’d polish it up a little and post it here for your frightful enjoyment. It’s based on a story I’d heard once when I was a child, I hope it puts you in that Halloween mood. And what the hell, critique it if you want. I’m always open to suggestion. Enjoy…

The leaves had already finished falling from the trees. They whipped and danced across the road and around Sara’s car. She would’ve liked to have moved earlier so she could enjoy the warm-colored tapestry of autumn, one of her favorite reasons for moving up to the country from New York City. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the city, as she found herself repeatedly reassuring her friends, but she just felt… trapped, and boxed in all the time. She’d been dreaming about packing it all up and moving to a quiet, out-of-the-way cabin for years now. And nothing like the oppressively meticulous suburbia she grew up in- those places that always reminded her of something out of The Stepford Wives. No, this would be out in rural country; “the boondocks” she’d heard someone call it. The place she found was perfect. Far enough to not have to worry about dealing with neighbors or the incessant passing of cars that lulled her to sleep for seven years, but not so far that people would think she was some kind of crazy shut-in. As an added bonus, she was just over an hour removed from the city, and she made sure all her friends knew that she expected frequent visits.

She couldn’t help but nervously glance at her rearview mirror all throughout the drive, making sure the moving truck she hired hadn’t gotten lost on some obscure back road as they navigated intrepidly through maze-like Putnam County. At first she couldn’t figure out how people could find their way around, but she chalked that up to her years of city life and decided that it would be a welcome change to stop thinking in grids. Besides, she thought, these guys have probably driven to far more obscure places than this.

She felt that rush, that Christmas morning couldn’t-hide-the-smile-if-she-tried excitement when they finally approached her new home. This house was her fist real experience with love at first sight. It was new and different to her, but at the same time familiar and inviting. It was a warm and beautiful dark brownish-red color cedar-and-brick cabin. It wasn’t too big or too small; a perfect fit for a young woman on her own, and just big enough to throw the occasional party. The interior had high ceilings and loft landings on the second floor; little touches that really made her fall in love. The crown jewel of the place though, as the realtor put it, was the panoramic picture window that took up nearly an entire wall in the living room. The view from that window could have been a painting, with a gorgeous vantage of the trees and the lake that made this place so envious. She couldn’t believe anyone would walk away from a house like this. When she asked why the previous owner moved, her realtor explained that the house was owned by an elderly couple who’d lived there for many years, and when the owner’s wife died, he put the house up for sale. “Too many memories, I suppose,” she had said with a sigh.

That did leave Sara with some questions, like exactly how the wife died, and if it had anything to do with the house. She asked her realtor if she knew the couple. “Oh yes,” she chirped, “They were delightful people.” She said that the wife loved jigsaw puzzles, and that she boasted having completed over one thousand. Not much of a socialite, Sara had thought to herself.
Once she pulled up to the house, she started ordering the movers around immediately. She had plenty of time to think about where she wanted everything, and she knew exactly how she wanted to put it all. She just wished some of her friends could have helped her, but conveniently for them, they were all busy.

The movers all wanted to get in and out fast, because one of them heard that a bad storm front was moving in before sundown that was going to last all night. So they packed everything into the house quickly and carefully, and Sara rewarded them with generous tips.
To celebrate her move, Sara broke out the bottle of wine her friends had given her while she unpacked. The previous owner had even left most of the furniture with the house, another reason this move set her back a pretty penny. So, most of her unpacking dealt with her personal items, a great volume of which was her shoe collection-quite possibly the only thing she missed about the city was the shoe shopping- and so a glass or two of wine wouldn’t really get in the way of her unpacking.

When Sara finally started unpacking her clothes, she opened up the closet in the master bedroom. It was impressively roomy, but there on the floor she discovered a small box, forgotten by the last owner. It looked like it was made of marble, and about bigger than an average jewelry box. She opened the lid to find that it was full of jigsaw puzzle pieces. This must have belonged to the owner’s wife, she thought. It might be fun to put together, since the cable won’t be installed for a couple days, and that storm is going to keep me inside all night… It was odd, though. It didn’t look like there was anything on any of the pieces. They looked… blank, like a television that’s been turned off. Sara assumed that that was just a portion of the picture.

So for the next few hours, Sara sat herself down on the couch in front of that beautiful picture window. She started wondering if any animals would pass by and startle her. The thought bothered her a little, so she turned the couch around so that it wasn’t facing the window. Once it got dark, and the storm was in full effect, Sara sat down with her wine, lit a few candles, and settled in for her “puzzle date,” as she jokingly thought of it.

She got to work, beginning, naturally, with the corners and working around the flat edges. The longer she worked on the puzzle, the more she lost track of time, while the thunderstorm raged on incessantly outside that huge window. The further the storm went on, the more she came dislike the window. She felt exposed, vulnerable. Before she knew it, her candles had burned down to the stubs, making the puzzle harder to see. She was matching up the pieces only by edge, wondering what this picture could possibly be. Her only clear glances at it were when lightning would flash and fill the room with a split second of clarity. Despite her progression through the puzzle, she still could not discern the picture. She sat there, completely disregarding all track of time. Glued to this couch, she tried in vain to see what could this damned puzzle could possibly be.

Sara began seeing things in the dark, imagining what the puzzle might look like. A myriad of awful images flooded her mind. With every clap of thunder, every flash of lightning, a new image would emerge in her head, each one more gruesome than the last. She began to grow paranoid, convinced that something was outside the window, but she was too afraid to turn around.
Piece by piece, the puzzle continued to take shape. What is it? What is it?! She began to wonder if the is how the last owner’s wife died; Consumed by this puzzle until she simply wasted away. Or maybe this puzzle drove the poor woman insane, as insane as Sara now felt.

She finally snapped the last piece into place. Her candles had long ago burned out, and she wondered how long she’d been sitting there. It was far too dark to see the puzzle now. She waited for another flash of lightning. The lightning struck, and she grew confused. Another flash and she began to breathe heavily. A third strike and she screamed. She could see the puzzle now, clear as day. The puzzle she had been putting together, the picture on the pieces she had found in that closet hours ago, was her.

It was her, sitting on the couch she had turned around before she sat down, putting the puzzle together. But there was something else. One more flash of lightning, and she began to cry. In the puzzle, behind her, something was outside the window. With tears running down her face, she turned around to face her beautiful panoramic picture window.

The magnificent window exploded in a hail of glass shards. The last thing Sara ever saw was a pair of deep glowing eyes before her screams were silenced.