actor who had appeared in huge blockbusters before producing a low-budget indie film said he couldn’t go on without a double whisky inside him.
You took care of it all, every whim, every request. You were good at this, you discovered.
You moved to a different flat; this one was closer to the tube. Your room was painted yellow and had a bed reached by a ladder. You would lie in it at night, when you got back late from work, and feel as though you were in the rocking cabin of a ship, being carried by night, that you might wake up in an entirely different place from the one in which you’d gone to sleep.
Opposite the bed was a small oval window. You wanted to take off the curtain but you couldn’t reach it. You liked to look out at the city at night. You told yourself you would paint the walls grey-white but you never found the time.
You knew the city now. You were part of it. You no longer carried a map in your pocket. People asked you for directions and you could give them. You looked like a Londoner, you dressed like a Londoner, you walked like a Londoner, fast and without eye contact. You tried to phone your mother once a week but you often forgot. Yes, you told her, I’m OK, everything is good, yes, I’m eating, yes, the job’s fine. She didn’t really understand what your job was. You suspected she was telling people you were a film director.
The Society held a series of events on the new wave of cinema coming out of Europe. You arranged flights for a group of young, foreign-language directors and their entourages: some came from Berlin, Milan or Barcelona, some from LA. There was great excitement about these events. Journalists rang, wanting interviews. Tickets sold out. The Society’s head added more dates and these sold out, too. You booked hotels, you liaised with assistants, you scheduled press days.
You darted in and out of the interviews. Phone calls came in all the time for the directors: producers calling from the States, journalists from other countries, wives, girlfriends, casting agents, managers. You fielded the calls, you wrote down the messages, you carried slips of paper about the building. There was a buzz, an almost palpable frenzy. You gathered, from listening in on various interviews and phone calls, that these directors were all under the age of thirty. They were reinventing the parameters of film, expanding the potential of the medium.
There was a dinner. You booked the dinner. You didn’t choose the restaurant – one in Soho, owned by an artist – but you called it, you confirmed the numbers; you discussed dietary requirements with all concerned. You sent out invitations to members of the press, carefully selected and vetted by the Society’s head. You booked cabs when the time came, you went and told the various directors that the cabs had arrived, you rounded up the directors, you guided them to the doors, where the cabs were waiting, you gave directions to the drivers: over the river, to Soho.
As you shut the door of the last cab but one, something caught on your sleeve. You turned. A director had you by the wrist, his index finger hooked into your cuff. ‘Are you coming?’
You said, no. You said, not tonight. The truth was that you weren’t invited, you were too lowly, too assistanty, but it didn’t feel right to say so.
‘That’s too bad,’ the man said, in a mixture of American vocabulary and Scandinavian accent. He was Swedish, you knew, and had closely cropped blond hair. When he was with the others in the group, he seemed reserved and watchful; he didn’t say much.
You shrugged and smiled. You gestured towards the final cab, where two other directors were waiting.
But he didn’t move to get in. ‘Where are you going now?’ he said instead.
Home, you said. I’m going to walk over the river, then get the tube.
The man lit a cigarette. ‘Is it OK if I walk with you?’ He lifted one shoulder, then the other. ‘I’ve been indoors all day. A walk is just
You took care of it all, every whim, every request. You were good at this, you discovered.
You moved to a different flat; this one was closer to the tube. Your room was painted yellow and had a bed reached by a ladder. You would lie in it at night, when you got back late from work, and feel as though you were in the rocking cabin of a ship, being carried by night, that you might wake up in an entirely different place from the one in which you’d gone to sleep.
Opposite the bed was a small oval window. You wanted to take off the curtain but you couldn’t reach it. You liked to look out at the city at night. You told yourself you would paint the walls grey-white but you never found the time.
You knew the city now. You were part of it. You no longer carried a map in your pocket. People asked you for directions and you could give them. You looked like a Londoner, you dressed like a Londoner, you walked like a Londoner, fast and without eye contact. You tried to phone your mother once a week but you often forgot. Yes, you told her, I’m OK, everything is good, yes, I’m eating, yes, the job’s fine. She didn’t really understand what your job was. You suspected she was telling people you were a film director.
The Society held a series of events on the new wave of cinema coming out of Europe. You arranged flights for a group of young, foreign-language directors and their entourages: some came from Berlin, Milan or Barcelona, some from LA. There was great excitement about these events. Journalists rang, wanting interviews. Tickets sold out. The Society’s head added more dates and these sold out, too. You booked hotels, you liaised with assistants, you scheduled press days.
You darted in and out of the interviews. Phone calls came in all the time for the directors: producers calling from the States, journalists from other countries, wives, girlfriends, casting agents, managers. You fielded the calls, you wrote down the messages, you carried slips of paper about the building. There was a buzz, an almost palpable frenzy. You gathered, from listening in on various interviews and phone calls, that these directors were all under the age of thirty. They were reinventing the parameters of film, expanding the potential of the medium.
There was a dinner. You booked the dinner. You didn’t choose the restaurant – one in Soho, owned by an artist – but you called it, you confirmed the numbers; you discussed dietary requirements with all concerned. You sent out invitations to members of the press, carefully selected and vetted by the Society’s head. You booked cabs when the time came, you went and told the various directors that the cabs had arrived, you rounded up the directors, you guided them to the doors, where the cabs were waiting, you gave directions to the drivers: over the river, to Soho.
As you shut the door of the last cab but one, something caught on your sleeve. You turned. A director had you by the wrist, his index finger hooked into your cuff. ‘Are you coming?’
You said, no. You said, not tonight. The truth was that you weren’t invited, you were too lowly, too assistanty, but it didn’t feel right to say so.
‘That’s too bad,’ the man said, in a mixture of American vocabulary and Scandinavian accent. He was Swedish, you knew, and had closely cropped blond hair. When he was with the others in the group, he seemed reserved and watchful; he didn’t say much.
You shrugged and smiled. You gestured towards the final cab, where two other directors were waiting.
But he didn’t move to get in. ‘Where are you going now?’ he said instead.
Home, you said. I’m going to walk over the river, then get the tube.
The man lit a cigarette. ‘Is it OK if I walk with you?’ He lifted one shoulder, then the other. ‘I’ve been indoors all day. A walk is just
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