[Dimmed lighting, stage left, soft focus, close up on lead. A cracked oil effect allows for light beam visibility. Eyes flutter open. A telephone rings. ]
Arianne: I’m sorry but it is too late to go out. Can’t you wait for tomorrow morning? It's too late. Yes, fine, but I am still very tired from last night. Your keys are in the lobby, I’ll leave them your name.
[Arianne picks up her pen and worn diary from the nightstand and begins to lose herself in thought. Fade to flashback]
A dark car parks about a block away from a green sign that reads, “Rue de Perle.” Two men and one young woman, Arianne, walk side by side towards a huddle of people lining the curb in front of the club. They face a long line after a short ride.
[End of flashback. Hasty French script is oozing onto a yellowed but blank page in Arianne’s diary. Writing comes into focus halfway down page]
I remember his first words to me, "I can't stop stretching. What is what, they say. No, no one says that. The ibuprofen's wearing off and my back is hurting. Got any good stuff?" David never made too much sense, but I liked him regardless. I passed him some aspirin.
"You're the best dealer in town." I long to write a book composed solely of David’s offhand remarks.
[Flashback continued inside of dark club. Accelerated motion, Backlighting]
A girl walks on stage. Pleather outerwear, a face only a mother could love. The clothes come off and the boars in the crowd gawk. “Me donner un baiser, give me a kiss, give me a kiss,” the crowd yells. The motherly-love notion is brushed under a cheap shag carpet by this hour. Three more self-searching college-age girls walked along the stage before the first Japanese Pop band begins to demean themselves. Eroticized croons are forced from a mouth seeking approval and crumpled notes. The lead's vacant stare and plastered smile look like remnants of a whole scattered somewhere across the ocean.
[Close-up of Diary, a hand is slightly out of focus as it scribbles away in the book]
I know that this is art, film, emotion. Nauseating truths can’t help but to trickle into my skull. Is this what it takes to make a living, are these people real? I saw the crowd in black and white, faces flickering past my lens. Jean Luc Godard directed “Vivre sa Vivre” in 1962, thirty five years prior to my current reality. “Godard,” my professor would dramatically start, “Godard is quoted as saying that every film has a beginning, middle and end, but not necessarily in that order.” I don’t know why this is coming to mind so vividly as this was an uninspired, inartistic, club. The beautiful Danish-born actress and Godard’s ex-wife, Anna Karina, had played this role, the role of the merchandised woman. I had understood the concept of the film; in fact it was one of my favorites. A woman in trouble, forced into prostitution in an effort to regain control of her life meets a tragic end at the hands of her pimp. Yes, yes, I’ve gone over this one in class countless times. There is the plot laid out before me, condensed into less than a sentence, but there is more, so much more. I see these women on stage and my camera mimics Godard’s direction. Long shots, medium shots, never a close-up, never a point of forced reflection. That is life. We are not force-fed the meaning, not in the tangible world. We are thrown images, I take these images, everyday, and I digest them; I give them what little meaning I can based on my small earthly experience. This is the fallen woman, this is the tragic heroine. But are we not all in this position? Do I not cover myself with makeup in an effort to captivate my fellow man and lure him in? I surely don’t do this for my health.
[Club]
The heat is visible on the crowd’s collective brow. Jack and Dave are distracted by a set of dark-haired twins.
[Abrupt cut, close-up on Arianne holding her pen with one hand and her head with the other, very perceptibly trying to straighten out her thoughts. Pan to diary entry]
I need to leave my head and finally sleep more than an hour at a time, I need to shake myself away from the over-analysis. The fact of the matter is, I had given up on my friends. Later, I snuck outside to smoke a cigarette in an effort to avoid the gaze of poorly aged men looking for some off-stage action. I don't know why I even went that night. Taking responsibility for Jack's lack of bestial success is not really my dish anymore.
[Club, Halo Lighting, Arianne’s back is to the camera]
Arianne walks up the gaudy dark mahogany stairs to find her friend sitting against a wall. She looks him up and down and asks him, “Too much to drink or not enough? This place is filthy. I feel itchy; my tights have started to unravel. The cement floor makes for a poor camp.”
[Diary, Arianne’s hand flows across the page, medium shot followed by a close-up of the writing]
The stench of carnal masculinity was just too much for my stomach. I was about to open my mouth to voice my discontent as my friend looked up and smiled. I barely know him anymore. I read the ad for this show on a telephone pole three weeks ago: Burlesque. Jack's been down about his ex-girlfriend, and as his closest friend, I figured that I may as well supply him with some sort of distraction. Luckily, Dave looked to be about as amused as myself during this particular performance. I had always liked him better anyways.
I left with no intention of stepping back into the club. Truly, I had had enough. The pizza place around the corner closed a half an hour ago during Luscious Linda's last set of hoola-hoop expositions. If I remember correctly, it was one of the biggest disappointments of the night.
[Outside of club, streetlamp lighting]
The three friends stand equidistant from each other on a curb. Jack is unable to drive in his stupor, so Arianne attempts to steer his manual back to the center of the city without stalling. They pass three cops in town who are keeping an eye on the local bars. Girls in cut-off denim skirts litter the sidewalks. A young looking blonde waves at the car as it stands still under a stoplight. The road out of town is darker and quieter. Arianne clumsily stuffs an old Lemonheads tape into the deck. There are only two titles visible: “Rudderless” and “Mrs. Robinson.”
[Scene cuts in 5 second intervals to Arianne falling asleep over her diary and the car’s passengers humming along to the tape while staring vacantly out of their respective windows. The song plays as a singular soundtrack, without acknowledging the cross-cuts]
Ship without a rudder's like a ship without a rudder's like a
ship without a rudder's like a ship without a rudder's like a ship without a
rudder's like a ship without a rudder's like a ship without a rudder.
[Fade to Black]
THE END
