Five Minutes of Pure Cinema

This title comes from the 1926 experimental short film "Five Minutes of Pure Cinema" directed by the French filmmaker Henri Chomette. 

~

Val robs the bank on Taco Night. He calls in sick, picks up the M5 rental while Beula’s at the store, and parks curbside at the downtown branch at 4 PM sharp. His disguise is simple but calculated: white face paint, black suspenders, black-and-white-striped shirt. He slips on a pair of white gloves and shoulders the red gym bag where he’s stashed the Beretta 92 he bought off Craigslist. Who knew guns could be so heavy? He’s seen plenty of them in movies but has never fired one in his life.

He counts twelve people in the lobby. Wait a minute—thirteen: there’s a fat lady admiring the blue Rothko near the ATMs. The customers stare at Val as he steps away from the automatic doors, looking at him like they’ve never seen a mime inside a bank before. The tellers look beat. A tall customer in a purple blazer points at Val with an expression that says, “I thought you guys were supposed to be funny.”

Well, now. We-ell.

Val drops to one knee and mimes tying his shoelaces. He’s not planning on hurting anyone. He’s no more a criminal than he is a mime. Val’s a writer, and like any writer, he just wants to be famous. He writes stenotype mostly—a loyal quarter century in the county courts—but movies are his true passion. Scripts. Since that first time his father took him to see Planet of the Apes when he was six years old, Val’s singular goal in life has been to make his way onto the big screen. He pops the safety on the gun. By whatever means possible.

The problem isn’t the rejection slip he got in the mail last month. At least, that’s not the only problem. Val’s received numerous rejections, not all of them form letters. If being short and nearsighted and waking up next to Beula each morning for the past three decades have taught him anything, it’s that dwelling on what might have been toughens you up. Get handed a rejection, you mope for a bit, pop a little popcorn, then go about your day. Easy-peasy. Unless the studio steals your idea. And Abject Studios, the indie firm where Val submitted the script for his latest science-fiction thriller, Return of the Jaguar Men, did just that: stole it, and turned a profit on it.

Val came to this conclusion on last week’s Taco Night. While Beula settled in to a bag of corn chips and searched their streaming library, Val immersed himself in the latest edition of Film Quarterly. An article called “The Poetics of Heroism: Rise of the New American Cinephile” caught his eye. According to the article, the cinephile, more than the average spectator, is the plane on which the real and diegetic worlds collide.

The New American Cinephile is more than just a hero, the author said. He’s a god.

Val was still reading when Beula picked the movie—a musical drama called Pork Boy, also produced by Abject Studios, about a thirty-five-year-old farmer named Miles who goes to start a new life among pigs. Val found it imbecilic. He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he was startling awake while Beula poked his stomach with the remote.

“Look, Valiance!” Beula pointed at the paused TV screen. “It’s just like what you wrote!”

Val perked up at that. Oh, buddy, did he perk up. He watched the clip a dozen times before he let them finish the movie. Beula was right.

Minus a few changes, the shot before the final fade in which the naked Miles climbs on a fencepost and reads T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” to a pen of pigs was exactly the same as the final scene in Return of the Jaguar Men, when the villainous cat chieftain, Jaguaro, reads an ancient manuscript of the same poem to a cage of feral humans and leads them through a portal to a new world. Even the wind was blowing in the same direction, so that Miles’s lank hair billowed over his forehead in the rain just like the tufts on Jaguaro’s ears shivered in the light of the cave. Pork Boy’s Wikipedia page said the film hadn’t been released until three months after Val submitted his script.

Well, now. We-ell.

He phoned Abject the following morning and spoke with Cecil from Customer Affairs.

“So what you’re telling me,” said Cecil from Customer Affairs, “is that this direct-to-stream movie you watched stole your script?”

“No-o,” Val said, annoyed. “I’m telling you it borrowed from it. I want my name in the credits plus my share of royalties.”

“You got proof on any of this?”

“I have my four master copies of Return of the Jaguar Men.”

“How about an attorney?”

Val sniffed. “I know a couple.”

“Look, pal”—and here, Val imagined Cecil from Customer Affairs sucking a cigar through his teeth—“all our movies go through several rounds of revisions. If that script really was your golden goose”—here, Val imagined Cecil from Customer Affairs blowing the smoke of said cigar back into his face—"sounds to me like someone else just fried it.”

Well, now. We-ell.

Val finishes his laces. People are still staring at him like he’s some kind of clown. Fine, then. No problemo. Pretty soon, every one of these stuck-up nincompoops is going to be soiling their undies while he swipes their iPhones and laughs at the goofy license photos in their wallets. He’s still working on his introduction. The classic “put ’em up, dipshits” or “this is a stickup” route isn’t going to pass muster with this crowd. No, sir. He jogs in place and mime-cracks his knuckles. Well then giddyap, partner: he’s just going to make himself as unpredictable as possible. Time to get that vault poppin’, you hobgoblins. Hi the fuck ho!

He’s unzipping the bag when the doors hiss open behind him. Val looks over his shoulder and sees a man in a green tuxedo and rubber wolf mask walk inside. Three more men in baby-blue jumpsuits and pink pig masks follow, all three holding black duffels. Val mimes his best “move along, fellas, cantina’s that way” impression. A little early for Halloween, isn’t it? Must be the closers at Party City.

The man in the wolf mask checks his wristwatch and doesn’t pay Val any attention. Val looks at the watch, too—a Rolex if it tells time—then down the wrist and to the furry hand where one, two, three, four, five thick fingers are curled around the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun. Val blinks.

He’s still blinking when the man in the wolf mask drops to one knee, throws back his head, and howls. The biggest pig unzips his duffel and unloads three bricks of dynamite by the door. The middle-sized one dashes toward the counter with a MAC-10 leveled at the tellers. The littlest pig raises a Billy club and starts shouting orders: “Put ’em up, dipshits. This is a stickup! Time to get that vault poppin’, you hobgoblins. Hi the fuck ho!”

Val can barely hear the gunshots over the ringing in his ears. Impossible. Impossible! Maybe he really is crazy. Or maybe it’s karma’s way of getting back at him for all those times he’s told people he isn’t married, or has said Beula’s his sister, or has gone alone to parties because he’s never wanted anyone to know he married a fat woman. But he’s never been unfaithful! Ah, karma! Well, if it is you, madam—you’ll pardon his saying so—but you are a bitch.

A moment later, Val’s survival instinct kicks in. The big bad wolf aims the sawed-off at his face. “You—clown boy. Let’s get the hand outta the bag and that ass of yours over with the others. Ain’t gotta take all day.”

Val doesn’t move. Clown boy?

The biggest pig sets out another brick of dynamite, then another and another. Val counts them: five, six dynamite bricks. And lookathere: a rhyme!

The littlest pig takes a head count. “Twelve of ’em,” he says. Val realizes he hasn’t been included. “Twelve of ’em and the clown here.”

Val’s grip on the gun slackens. “The” clown?

The big bad wolf scratches his big bad chin. “Blow ’em down if you need to. Show ’em we’re not fooling.” He takes a step toward Val. “Hey, clowno?”

CLOWNO?

“You got three seconds to start moving that ass before I blow it out the door. Whatchoo got in that bag of yours you can’t let go of? Your cock?”

Val tightens his grip again. He’ll show them clowno. Oh, buddy, will he show them.

The wolf presses the gun against Val’s temple. “You deaf or somethin’?” 

Val lifts his chin a little. No, Lobo, he’s not deaf. No siree bob. He’s just come up with three ways to blow his way out of this joint, two of which might earn him a movie deal.

“One,” the wolf growls.

Option one: no movie, but he survives. He’s seen enough films to know he’s got plenty of time to sling his gun out and pop ol’ big bad in the gonads before he can howl. That still leaves the pigs, but Val’s a firm believer in the Element of Surprise: crazy spin move, James-Bond-drop to one knee, and WHAMMO! Right in the nuts. While the pigs are still scratching their chinny-chin-chins, he’ll be out the door faster than The Phantom Menace ruined Star Wars. Live to rob another day, assholes. 

“Two.”

On second thought, after he zaps the wolf, he can dash behind the ATMs and get some leverage with the dynamite. He’s not sure how well shooting an explosive works in real life, but he’s willing to bet the three little pigs won’t wait around to find out. Some of the customers might even help him out. From the sound of things, one of them is squealing up a stinkeroo. If they don’t shoot her, she might be an ally: she sounds as angry as Beula does when Val can’t figure out the Roku.

“Three.”

In which the crooks escape and blow the bank and some hot-shot director makes a movie about it.

Of course, Val realizes his own firearm poses problems for options one and two. Sure, you come out a hero and it’s possible you can magic-hand-wave the whole dress-up-like-a-mime-and-bring-a-gun-into-a-bank-thing. Something like that happened recently in court, actually. Some two-timing buster who was going to be up the creek unless he got some evidence buried or a pyrotechnics license retroactively fitted turned out to have a degree in constructive theology. Then it was all “Say what, partner? You saved a few sinners while you were burning down that church? Well, now, Uncle Sam’s a’comin’ to bail you out!” But flee the scene without saving anyone and there’s a different set of problems. Firing a gun inside a bank without atoning for it? Well now, that’s incriminating evidence.

We-ell.

“All right, clowno, lights out.”

The wolf turns him so he’s staring straight into the painting. Val realizes it looks a little like a movie screen.  He squints at it. Now it looks a lot like one. Well here it is, boys: he’s made it after all! After today, there’ll be no more courtrooms; no more rejection letters; no more Taco Nights and Roku fights with Beula. Martin Scorsese will direct the movie and show black-and-white photos of Val and the other departed and it will be great. Baby, it’s gonna be great!

He squints harder and thinks of that first time watching Planet of the Apes with his father in the late sixties and blocks out everything else until it’s just the two of them in the vacant theater: the smells of butter and cola, popcorn hulls in his teeth, lights low and flickering on that lonely long shot of a bare-chested Charlton Heston riding horseback on a beach. Lady Liberty’s so deep in the sand he can feel it between his toes, same as he feels his father’s hands covering his ears to block out those haunting final words: God damn you all to—

“Say, boss?”

Val feels the gun muzzle shift. The littlest pig is talking to the big bad wolf. He glares at the pig. Well pardon me, tubbo, but this isn’t your execution.

The big bad wolf exhales a big bad breath into Val’s face. Val concludes he had pork chops for lunch.

“Boss, we gotta live one.”

Val feels himself being turned around again. The biggest pig holds out his duffel while the tellers stuff it with cash. The middle one pans the MAC-10 across the ring of customers, all of them lying face-down on the carpet with hands flat against their backs. All of them but the fat lady. The squealer. And now she’s standing right in front of him, with the littlest pig’s club mashed against her chinny-chin-chins. Val squints at her.

It’s Beula.

The Element of Surprise ninja-kicks Val in the nuts. It’s impossible, he thinks. Too comical. Too impossibly imperfect. But there she is, the bag of corn chips and guacamole and 80/20 ground chuck held loosely in her chubby hand.

Val drops the gym bag and feels tears spring to his eyes. Oh, fellas, they’ve ruined it! The jig is up, boys! Oh, Beula baby, he’s sorry. So sorry. Now she’s looking at him. Can she recognize him through the paint?

“Valiance?”  Beula’s tone is sharp. “What are you doing dressed up like a clown?” She pushes past the littlest pig and puts her hand on Val’s forehead. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

The big bad wolf jerks his thumb at Beula and growls at the littlest pig. “So what’s the fuss about her? Looks like a porker. Blow her down already.”

Val bristles. Porker? Listen up, buckos, Beula’s no more a porker than he is a clowno unless he’s the one calling the pork. Put ’em up, fellas. Put ’em uppppp. Why, he oughta—do what, exactly? Escape? Es-ca-pe?

The littlest pig shakes his head. “Boss, I ain’t the guy to off nobody.” He lowers the club. “You do it.”

Ah, there’s the good thief! Such sweet, musical redemption! How ya like them apples, fellas?

The wolf presses harder on the gun. From the corner of his eye, Val sees the biggest pig zipping up the duffel. The tellers march out from behind the counter under the direction of the middle pig’s gun. One, two, three they drop their noses to the carpet.

“Blow ’em,” says the big bad wolf.

The biggest and middlest pigs come clopping over the carpet. And—ah!—what a luscious red color is that wool! Bank lights glint along the gun barrels like the cameras on Hollywood Boulevard. A ticker-tape cloud of hundred-dollar bills billows in their wake. Well, buddy, this is it. He’s made it. The curtain’s low and going—

“Blow ’em all doooowwwwwnnnnn.”

And quick as you please, Val finds himself and Beula face down with the others. He can’t see beyond the coffee stain in front of him, but he’s pretty sure the wolf and pigs have lit the fuse gotten the hell outta there like it’s Dog Day Afternoon. Good riddance!

The people around him know what’s coming. He can hear them murmuring and weeping and praying quietly into the carpet. Sure, fellas, go ahead and cry, but listen here: there’s people’d pay a coupla big bucks to have John Williams compose the score for this finale. By golly, there is!

Val squeezes Beula’s hand; clamps his eyes shut; presses his nose into the carpet and…

Wait a minute.

Val’s eyes pop open again. Hold your horses there, honcho. Is this really how it’s all gonna end? Like this? Where’s God when you need him? Well now, if Val’s learned one thing from the movies, it’s that the God of good ideas lives in the mind of a filmmaker. Better yet, a script writer. He jumps to his feet, head spinning. Then it comes to him: the deus ex machina to deus ex all others.

Well, now. We-ell.

Val finds the gym bag and fishes out the gun. He’s not thinking about the robbery anymore. No sir. He’s not thinking about anything except the Film Quarterly article, about the New American Cinephile. He’s got more wheels spinning in his head than there are in the entire Fast franchise. Oh, buddy, he does!

He plants himself in front of the Rothko, sees a clock on the wall opposite frozen at 4:05. He takes a deep breath. “We are the hollow men,” he begins, waving the gun around excitedly. Silence. He keeps going. “We are the stuff of legends. Living together, in homes of brick and straw!” He clasps his hands; raises them to the sky.

The people in the bank murmur and look around, apparently surprised that no one’s been exploded yet. Beula and several others clamber to their feet, blinking sleepily. Then the man in the blazer starts to clap. Others rise, looks of surprise turning to joy. Suddenly, the doors hiss open and the wolf and three pigs waltz inside, all six bricks of dynamite bursting into clouds of colored confetti. The four of them link arms, dance a hop-skip, and take a bow. Then everyone is clapping, Beula most of all, a smile splitting her face from ear to ear to chinny-chin-chins.

“Come on now, fellas!” Val roars. A breeze from somewhere tickles his ears. He brushes the loose hairs from his forehead. Everyone is looking at him, clapping and whistling and tossing up confetti and hundred-dollar bills. He feels hot, suddenly. Hotter. So hot he has to shout to hear his voice over the crackle of ear wax. “This is the way the worlds end,” he screams, and the others scream it with him. The big bad wolf throws back his head and howls.

A god.

“Not with a buck…” He raises the pistol in the air; fires.

…not with a fuck…

Like a curtain, he lets his arms fall and steps inside the painting. “But a window.”