Fair Play by Tove Jansson Page A

her studio, Jonna set up the screen, focused the projector, and turned off the ceiling light. Mari sat waiting with pen and paper. The machine began to whir and threw a rectangle of light across the screen.
    â€œMake notes where I should cut,” Jonna said. “And the repeats.”
    â€œYes, yes, I know. And when it goes black.”
    Their trip came toward them. Mari made notes:
    head gone to r.
    jumping
    fence on l.
    too long beach
    unnec. landsc.
    people gone too fast
    flower blurred
    She wrote and wrote, and afterwards she didn’t really know where they had been.
    â€œThe clipping is even harder than the filming,” Jonna explained. “When I’ve cut it, we can add music, but not yet. Music makes you uncritical.”
    â€œJonna, right now I want to see something with music. And without taking notes.”
    â€œWhat do you want to see?”
    â€œMexico. The empty carnival. You know, all the people who were too poor to ride the carousel.”
    Jonna put in the cassette, an endless, mournful marimba. The picture was blurry and shaky at first but gathered itself suddenly into a long, evening landscape—the empty field outside Mazatlán. There was the drainage ditch running out toward the ocean, reflecting a last glimpse of the sunset in a long band of burning gold that quickly died. Then the barracks, the car dump, and now, far off, the Ferris wheel with its many-colored lights that rose and sank and rose and sank.
    The Konica came closer and you could see that all the little pleasure boats were empty. The picture moved over to a carousel that was also revolving and just as empty. Everything was sparkling and tempting and ready for fun, but the people strolling slowly through the carnival took no part in the amusements; they just observed. Except for some boys shooting at targets, whose stern faces Jonna had caught in a close-up.
    As the film went on, dusk sank deeper over Mazatlán, the people left, but the Ferris wheel kept on turning, now just a circle of rising and falling lights. It was almost night. The marimba played on. The back of the circus tent, indistinct, some dogs rooting around in a rubbish tip.
    â€œTerrible,” Mari said. “Terribly good. All those people who just had to go home without ... But at least they saw it, didn’t they? Didn’t you get the ditch at the end, too? That sparkled?”
    â€œWait, it’s coming.”
    The picture went black and stayed black for a long time. Several weak flashes of light, nothing more, and the screen was empty.
    Mari said, “You have to cut that; no one will get it. It was too dark.”
    Jonna turned off the projector and turned on the overhead light. She said, “Right there it has to be absolutely black, graphically black. But you were there now, weren’t you?”
    â€œYes,” Mari answered. “I was there.”

B-WESTERN
    J ONNA came in with a bottle of bourbon, a carafe of water, and a packet of Cortez cigarillos.
    â€œAha,” said Mari, “the Wild West. A B-Western?”
    â€œYes. An early classic.”
    The room was cold, and Mari wrapped herself in a blanket. “What time?”
    â€œActually,” Jonna said. “Actually, it would probably be better if I watched it alone.”
    â€œI promise not to say a word.”
    â€œYes, but I’ll know what you’re thinking, and I can’t concentrate.” Jonna poured them both a drink. “You think Westerns repeat the same theme over and over. That may be. But you have to understand that Americans are in love with their history, which was so short and powerful, and they describe and depict it again and again ... Are you in love with the Renaissance? What do you care about the ancient Egyptians? The Chinese?”
    â€œNot much,” Mari said. “They’re just there. Or were.”
    â€œFine. Now don’t assume that I’m defending B-Westerns, but think about it, try to