Cinéma/Vérité (PG-13)
Posted: Wed Mar 31, 2010 12:01 am
Disclaimer: I do not own Josef, or Graumann’s Chinese Theatre, or anything relating to the movie Josef is viewing. The details of the date, the venue, the pre-show, and the film are as accurate as I can make them, using material researched in the Los Angeles Times.
I also wanted to mention that this was a bit of a birthday present for Jason…and he got the first copy, in the form of a booklet I gave him at Comicpalooza in Houston, March 27, 2010.
Cinéma/Vérité
Hollywood, April 2, 1932
Josef looked down from the private balcony box on the men in worn suits, the women in cloth coats and out-of-date cloche hats. He watched them trail behind the ushers, shown to the seats they’d paid fifty hard earned cents, seventy-five, or even a dollar for, hoping for the best view of the spectacle to come. The main auditorium of the cavernous theatre was filling, the murmur of the crowd muted by the red velvet of over 2000 seats and vast, ornate curtains concealing the silver screen.
For himself, he’d called in a favor from Sid Graumann, and had exclusive use of one of the owner’s boxes for the evening. As he raised his eyes to the soaring red and black lacquered ceiling and the intricate metal work of the dropped circular chandelier, gold and red glowing high above the crowd, he supposed he’d have to endure random shrieks of surprise and terror from the people below. They had little inkling of true horror, or at least not as he understood the term.
He stood at the back of the box, for now, his fedora still pulled down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of the camel coat he wore over his hand-tailored suit. No sense showing himself unnecessarily. Random crowds were…not his style.
He didn’t waste time at the movies often, preferring live theatre, although he’d enjoyed his share of movie stars. Made a few of them, too, starlets turned stars as a reward for services rendered. More than one of his freshies had ended up famous. He grimaced a little at the new term, “freshie.” It had been gaining in popularity in the vampire community, this past decade. He supposed it was the jazz age, everything changing, becoming faster, snappier. Every once in awhile, he still slipped, still thought of those willing humans as swallows, but he’d never been so careless as to say it aloud. The last thing he needed was to brand himself as old-fashioned.
The film had been playing to packed houses for several days now. And even though he was regularly invited to premieres, in fact had been invited to the one for this movie, he always declined. Getting anywhere near all those flashing cameras, the ones that wouldn’t capture a clear image of him, was not going to happen.
But he’d been convinced this movie, this one, he should make the effort to see. He was more than a little skeptical. After all, the last movie he’d taken the trouble to see had turned out to be unintentionally hilarious, as Bela Lugosi drifted around in a high collared cape, proclaiming that he never drank….wine. What nonsense. He supposed he should be grateful for the misinformation Stoker’s brainchild had spread. The less his own capabilities and proclivities were understood, the less likely he was to be exposed. And he was fine with that. He frowned and brushed a stray speck of lint from his otherwise spotless lapel. Yeah, catch him in some cobwebby crypt. Not since about 1640, thank you very much. Though he had seen his fair share of bright days through in windowless cellars. That was different.
Those new freezer units were certainly a boon, though. He was finding it difficult, some nights at the club, after relieving some upstart babyvamp of a few thousand at the billiards table, not to go off into old fogey mode and do the whole “back in my day…” schtick. Damn know-it-all fledglings these days. No one wanted to hear about torch-bearing mobs. Or pitchforks, for that matter. He’d caught one rolling his eyes, the other night. The fledgling apologized. Eventually.
And he hadn’t hauled out the white tie and tails in at least two weeks. He preferred his parties more—informal. He was getting spoiled, really. These Hollywood girls—not wanting marks on their pretty, slender necks or wrists. More than willing to spread their pale thighs, though, for the bite…among other things. As Greta had said recently, in that charming accent of hers, “Hell, darling, at least with you it’s always a pleasure.”
Ah, the lights were beginning to dim, the chinoiserie murals along the walls, depicting gentle golden ladies swaying in luxurious silk robes, among graceful pavilions and exotic Asian landscapes, fading into the falling darkness. He put aside his hat, and shrugged off his coat, laying them on an extra seat in the box. The film didn’t start at once, however. The parade of dancers, singers, and spectacles seemed dwarfed to him by the setting, and he drummed his long fingers impatiently against the arm of his seat, waiting for it to finish.
When the main event started, he sat back in his seat, ready to be amazed. Or not. The flickering images annoyed him as always. With his visual comprehension faster than human, he had a little trouble getting his eyes to relax enough to let the persistence of vision kick in and change the rapid succession of stills into anything like motion. He supposed it would get easier with practice, provided he found it worthwhile.
The movie was a bit slow at the start, he thought. The old search for the uncharted island. He did sit up a bit when Fay Wray was offered up to the monster. She was a toothsome morsel, all right. Any monster worth his salt would want her. Not that he saw himself as a monster, not that he wanted to identify with Kong in any way. He was a civilized being. His interest was…clinical. That’s all.
He wondered, amid the gasps and moans floating up from the audience below, how many of them understood what it was to live surrounded by lesser beings. To feel the isolation of being branded wrongly as monstrous. He found himself cheering silently for the big ape, shaking his head over the improbable romance between Kong and Ann Darrow. These interspecies romances never worked. He could tell that monkey a story or two.
Josef barely noticed the time passing, caught up in the titanic struggles of Kong to protect the golden woman he’d claimed—he thought—as his own. The fights with monsters as powerful as himself, pterodactyls, dinosaurs, the uncanny remnants of another age left on this mystical island. Unseen in the darkness, the vampire snarled as the ape was captured, then displayed, chained, mocked with a ludicrous, coyly tilted tin-foil crown.
How dare the puny humans desecrate a force of nature in this way? This was wrong, wrong, and Josef almost laughed when Kong tore loose of his bonds to rampage through the city, to find and re-claim his love, exulting with the ape as he ripped through city buses and trains, and made his way, with the girl in hand, up the sheer sides of the Empire State Building. Josef could appreciate the parallels of the modernized dangers of the city with those Kong had conquered in his home environment. The gadfly stings of modern life were both different, and the same, as those of the past. Josef nodded to himself. Danger was always about, no matter what form it took. And the worst dangers were the ones that looked like refuges and respites from the struggle.
When Kong fell, a giant brought to the earth, Carl Denham proclaimed, “Twas beauty, killed the beast.” Josef, sitting back in his seat, as the closing credits rolled, thought, no, it wasn’t beauty. It was love that destroyed King Kong. And wondered where the woman was, human or vampire, that could make his heart captive, and set him free. Then he gave a cynical laugh. No beauty was going to kill this beast.
He stood and shrugged on his tan overcoat, his fingers carefully adjusting the crown of his fedora. Preparing himself to slip unnoticed through the mortal throng. He was due at the club; he had a few billiards lessons to teach. And later, a date with a very nice, very willing, donor in Redondo Beach. No sense hanging around here, wasting time.
I also wanted to mention that this was a bit of a birthday present for Jason…and he got the first copy, in the form of a booklet I gave him at Comicpalooza in Houston, March 27, 2010.
Cinéma/Vérité
Hollywood, April 2, 1932
Josef looked down from the private balcony box on the men in worn suits, the women in cloth coats and out-of-date cloche hats. He watched them trail behind the ushers, shown to the seats they’d paid fifty hard earned cents, seventy-five, or even a dollar for, hoping for the best view of the spectacle to come. The main auditorium of the cavernous theatre was filling, the murmur of the crowd muted by the red velvet of over 2000 seats and vast, ornate curtains concealing the silver screen.
For himself, he’d called in a favor from Sid Graumann, and had exclusive use of one of the owner’s boxes for the evening. As he raised his eyes to the soaring red and black lacquered ceiling and the intricate metal work of the dropped circular chandelier, gold and red glowing high above the crowd, he supposed he’d have to endure random shrieks of surprise and terror from the people below. They had little inkling of true horror, or at least not as he understood the term.
He stood at the back of the box, for now, his fedora still pulled down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of the camel coat he wore over his hand-tailored suit. No sense showing himself unnecessarily. Random crowds were…not his style.
He didn’t waste time at the movies often, preferring live theatre, although he’d enjoyed his share of movie stars. Made a few of them, too, starlets turned stars as a reward for services rendered. More than one of his freshies had ended up famous. He grimaced a little at the new term, “freshie.” It had been gaining in popularity in the vampire community, this past decade. He supposed it was the jazz age, everything changing, becoming faster, snappier. Every once in awhile, he still slipped, still thought of those willing humans as swallows, but he’d never been so careless as to say it aloud. The last thing he needed was to brand himself as old-fashioned.
The film had been playing to packed houses for several days now. And even though he was regularly invited to premieres, in fact had been invited to the one for this movie, he always declined. Getting anywhere near all those flashing cameras, the ones that wouldn’t capture a clear image of him, was not going to happen.
But he’d been convinced this movie, this one, he should make the effort to see. He was more than a little skeptical. After all, the last movie he’d taken the trouble to see had turned out to be unintentionally hilarious, as Bela Lugosi drifted around in a high collared cape, proclaiming that he never drank….wine. What nonsense. He supposed he should be grateful for the misinformation Stoker’s brainchild had spread. The less his own capabilities and proclivities were understood, the less likely he was to be exposed. And he was fine with that. He frowned and brushed a stray speck of lint from his otherwise spotless lapel. Yeah, catch him in some cobwebby crypt. Not since about 1640, thank you very much. Though he had seen his fair share of bright days through in windowless cellars. That was different.
Those new freezer units were certainly a boon, though. He was finding it difficult, some nights at the club, after relieving some upstart babyvamp of a few thousand at the billiards table, not to go off into old fogey mode and do the whole “back in my day…” schtick. Damn know-it-all fledglings these days. No one wanted to hear about torch-bearing mobs. Or pitchforks, for that matter. He’d caught one rolling his eyes, the other night. The fledgling apologized. Eventually.
And he hadn’t hauled out the white tie and tails in at least two weeks. He preferred his parties more—informal. He was getting spoiled, really. These Hollywood girls—not wanting marks on their pretty, slender necks or wrists. More than willing to spread their pale thighs, though, for the bite…among other things. As Greta had said recently, in that charming accent of hers, “Hell, darling, at least with you it’s always a pleasure.”
Ah, the lights were beginning to dim, the chinoiserie murals along the walls, depicting gentle golden ladies swaying in luxurious silk robes, among graceful pavilions and exotic Asian landscapes, fading into the falling darkness. He put aside his hat, and shrugged off his coat, laying them on an extra seat in the box. The film didn’t start at once, however. The parade of dancers, singers, and spectacles seemed dwarfed to him by the setting, and he drummed his long fingers impatiently against the arm of his seat, waiting for it to finish.
When the main event started, he sat back in his seat, ready to be amazed. Or not. The flickering images annoyed him as always. With his visual comprehension faster than human, he had a little trouble getting his eyes to relax enough to let the persistence of vision kick in and change the rapid succession of stills into anything like motion. He supposed it would get easier with practice, provided he found it worthwhile.
The movie was a bit slow at the start, he thought. The old search for the uncharted island. He did sit up a bit when Fay Wray was offered up to the monster. She was a toothsome morsel, all right. Any monster worth his salt would want her. Not that he saw himself as a monster, not that he wanted to identify with Kong in any way. He was a civilized being. His interest was…clinical. That’s all.
He wondered, amid the gasps and moans floating up from the audience below, how many of them understood what it was to live surrounded by lesser beings. To feel the isolation of being branded wrongly as monstrous. He found himself cheering silently for the big ape, shaking his head over the improbable romance between Kong and Ann Darrow. These interspecies romances never worked. He could tell that monkey a story or two.
Josef barely noticed the time passing, caught up in the titanic struggles of Kong to protect the golden woman he’d claimed—he thought—as his own. The fights with monsters as powerful as himself, pterodactyls, dinosaurs, the uncanny remnants of another age left on this mystical island. Unseen in the darkness, the vampire snarled as the ape was captured, then displayed, chained, mocked with a ludicrous, coyly tilted tin-foil crown.
How dare the puny humans desecrate a force of nature in this way? This was wrong, wrong, and Josef almost laughed when Kong tore loose of his bonds to rampage through the city, to find and re-claim his love, exulting with the ape as he ripped through city buses and trains, and made his way, with the girl in hand, up the sheer sides of the Empire State Building. Josef could appreciate the parallels of the modernized dangers of the city with those Kong had conquered in his home environment. The gadfly stings of modern life were both different, and the same, as those of the past. Josef nodded to himself. Danger was always about, no matter what form it took. And the worst dangers were the ones that looked like refuges and respites from the struggle.
When Kong fell, a giant brought to the earth, Carl Denham proclaimed, “Twas beauty, killed the beast.” Josef, sitting back in his seat, as the closing credits rolled, thought, no, it wasn’t beauty. It was love that destroyed King Kong. And wondered where the woman was, human or vampire, that could make his heart captive, and set him free. Then he gave a cynical laugh. No beauty was going to kill this beast.
He stood and shrugged on his tan overcoat, his fingers carefully adjusting the crown of his fedora. Preparing himself to slip unnoticed through the mortal throng. He was due at the club; he had a few billiards lessons to teach. And later, a date with a very nice, very willing, donor in Redondo Beach. No sense hanging around here, wasting time.