Nothing Beside Remains

2.07.2005

Burn, Hollywood, Burn

*****This piece is still HEAVILY being worked on. Please don't laugh at me, or call me and tell me I suck based on its quality.*****

They always say that the right to free speech doesn't give you the right to yell "fire" in a crowded theatre. They never mention the consequences that can occur when the theatre is actually burning.

Not that anyone would hear if I did yell. I mean, who knows, maybe Donald Rumsfeld has all the theaters in the country bugged. Maybe if I yell "fire" the SWAT teams will swoop down from black helicopters and haul me off to the same Siberian prison that houses those scoundrels who rip the tags off mattresses or retransmit basketball games without the express written consent of the NBA. But Big Brother aside, I'm all alone in the projection booth. Just me, the smoke, the flames and the reels.

I'm the captain of this goddamn theatre, and I'm going down with my ship.

I suppose you're wondering why I've called you all here. Someone in this room is a murderer.

I've always wanted to say that, but in my dreadfully ordinary life, I've never quite had the occasion. Tonight, though, it's true. Somebody in this room is a murderer. And since I'm the only one here, I expect my investigation to be quite swift. Justice, ladies and gentlemen, will be done.

I wasn't always a murderer. Nobody is born a murderer, of course. To be a murderer, you have to murder someone, and we've all got to start somewhere. I guess I'm what you'd call a late bloomer. I wasn't a murderer until tonight.

It's midnight. I sit alone in the projection booth of the multiplex, a sea of empties at my feet. I pull a film canister from the shelf at random. These things have always looked like metal frisbees to me. I toss it experimentally through the door and into the inferno. It whirls off, floating in slow motion like a cheap flying-saucer effect. I can almost see the wires that support it. ET, phone the fire department. I grab another reel, thread it into the projector. The metal of the machine, heated by the tongues of flame, sears the flesh of my fingertips. I bet now I could murder someone and they'd never catch me. No fingerprints. I'm them. I'm they.

And now, a flashback:

The scene: a large supermarket, two days ago. I'm in the condiments aisle, environmentally friendly canvas bag dangling from my arm as I compare brands of peanut butter. I'm played by Julia Roberts in this film, hiding behind the pair of glasses that are the universal Hollywood signal for "woman who, though lacking in self-esteem, will, with the help of her love interest, discover her own true beauty sometime in the third act." The leading man approaches, pushing a cart full of Oreos. His dark features aren't classically beautiful, but they're perfect for establishing his indie cred. And...action!

"Hey," I said, noticing his gaze as I returned a jar of Skippy to the shelf.

"I'm Harry," he proclaimed, selecting a jar. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sally." He walked away before I had a chance to think of a response.

A few minutes later, in toilet paper, he approached me again, this time sans cart. He had an odd walk, somewhere between a glide and a waddle, his arms held stiff and slightly away from his body.

"Yippie kay yay, motherfucker," he offered, conversationally. Then, he placed a long finger against his lips, and walked away without another word. I realized where I had seen that walk before. He walked like a penguin. Or like Andy Garcia, who I had always found unnervingly penguin-like.

"Mr. McClane, wait!" He turned abruptly and shuffled toward me. My trademark grin was met with a look of deadly seriousness, and it melted into uncertainty in the harsh glare of his fervent gaze. He pulled me urgently behind a nearby wall of Tampax.

"We can't talk here," he whispered. "Meet me at the theatre tomorrow, before your shift. High noon."

"Why me? I mean, of all the gin joints..."

"...in all the world," he finished, nodding. "That's why." And he disappeared.

The projector spins furiously. "Pop quiz, asshole." Speed. Dennis Hopper in all his raging drug-trip psychopathic glory.

I'd seen far too many Meg Ryan movies for this character's mysterious behavior to seem the least bit unusual. As far as I was concerned, an apparent lack of social skills on the part of a complete stranger was more likely to lead to true love than to a restraining order. I fully expected to have my wedding –not that I'll ever have one now– interrupted near the end of the film by a childhood friend or other true love flinging himself against the stained glass and screaming my name. I would, of course, marry the interloper on the spot.

Pop quiz, asshole. You're the projectionist in a formerly-crowded theatre that is now spontaneously combusting. The building is falling down around your ears, and you realize you're
never going to be swept off your feet by George Clooney. What do you do, asshole? What do you do?

Well, in all the commotion, I lost track myself. But this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful gun in the world. It'll blow your head clean off and then I'll say Marilyn Manson and Mortal Kombat made me do it. So the question you gotta ask yourself is, do you feel lucky, punk? Huh? Do you?

The next day, clad in my red multiplex vest, I clocked in a few minutes early. The tall, dark stranger from the store darted out from behind the popcorn machine as I crossed the lobby. He dragged me by the shoulder into the 11:45 showing of the latest DeNiro picture, ignoring the quizzical looks the ticket-taker gave my employee vest.

"I get in free," I stammered.

"Shhhh!" hissed my companion and three or four of the people seated around us. I lowered my voice, keeping the dialogue to the actors as per theatre policy.

I open the door of the projection booth again and fire a shot into the hell outside. Why not? More gunfire is always better. When in doubt, ask yourself: What Would Jerry Bruckheimer Do? The shell casing flies high and to the left, clattering behind the projector.

How come nobody ever blames their double-Uzi high school trench coat killing spree on Tetris? Or Pong? Pong makes me want to kill someone. Fucking Pong.

Bang. Burn.

"Who are you?"

"My name isn't important," replied my mysterious leading man. "You may call me the Bandit, if you wish."

"Does that make me Smokey?"

"It will, soon, if your mission goes according to plan. And if it doesn't, we never met."

I let the Mission: Impossible bit slide. "Okay, Mr. Bandit. Do you mind telling me what's going on here? And while you're at it, just exactly do you know where I work?" I knew that he knew it because it's in the script. but I wanted to see what he'd say.

"I know what I need to know. I know that you are a projectionist here. I know that you know movies. And I also know that which you do not know. I know that you do not know what I know. I am here to tell you the things I know, so that then you will know what I know, and we will both know what I–"

I cut him off with a gesture. "Look, I have to start working soon. That new thing with Ben Affleck opens today, and if it doesn't start on time, the crowd'll riot. So tell me what it is that you know, quickly."

"You know movies," he said solemnly. I already knew that, but said nothing. "What I know is this: there is a dreadful conspiracy afoot, and movies are at its core. Our society has been infected with a terrible social disease. Hollywood is the carrier, and the whole world will fall victim. You've seen Waterworld, right? It's a metaphor. If Kevin Costner had his way, the whole world would be drowned in the blood of the innocent. The signs are there.

"But it's more than just a metaphor. It's the reality we live in. The actors, the producers, the directors of photography...these are the enemy. Steven Spielberg makes Stalin look like Elwood P. Dowd. Robert Redford shot JFK."

I wish I had a copy of Saturday Night Fever in here. John Travolta deserves to burn after his last, like, six movies. Disco inferno.

"That's absurd!" The indignant audience threw popcorn that bounced, unnoticed, off my head.

"You know it isn't. Just think. This is the era of reality TV, a time when Hillary Duff is considered a rising star. Eminem has more Academy Awards than does Martin Scorcese. You live in a society that has decided that one Weekend At Bernie's film was not sufficient."

He had a point.

"Look at your life," he continued. "Look what Hollywood has done to you. You haven't had a date in months. Your so-called friends can barely stand to speak to you."

"That's not true! They like me! They really like me!"

"You can't have a conversation without quoting one of the films with which you have replaced your personality."

"Liar!"

But he waved his hand slowly and spoke. "These aren't the droids you're looking for." The doubts melted from my mind. He had seen through me as though I was Bruce Willis and he saw dead people. That was uncalled for, though. He didn't have to attack me personally. He had had me at "hello."

Yesterday, I was in the supermarket, buying the essentials. Milk, pickles, chocolate cupcakes, wine coolers, Magnum bullets. How come it's always a crowded theatre people are so concerned with? Yelling "fire," I mean. Is it okay to yell "fire" in a crowded supermarket? An empty theatre? Can I yell "bomb" or "surprise ninja attack" instead?

I looked at the Bandit. Although he walked like Andy Garcia, his face was all Baldwin.

"What should I do?"

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

Anyway, I was in the supermarket, buying wine coolers, and I decided whiskey would do the job just as well. Nah, vodka.

Fuck it, might as well do the thing properly. To Home Depot: your home for home improvement. Or destruction of public property, but they don't advertise that one. Apparently, you can buy gasoline in bulk. Rags too, and empty bottles. Now all they need to do is package 'em together. Molotov cocktails for dummies.

And then I came here, and one by one, I lit the bottles and threw them out the door of my booth. And nobody yelled "fire."

Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night.