at the moonlight splayed, shot on the dirt floor, silver and soft. we were shooting the les murray biopic & it was all going cheaply to plan (for cannes) plenty of slow pans and montages – a bit short on action scenes and I, like a lost hitchhiker, watching all my lovers proving to be props in some macabre film, in black and white. A sliver of light in the loft, three drops, hatching noir thought-bubbles above John Howard’s latex scalp he daydreams of ship building, of being a people smuggler or something else, nothing to do with people, their syntax and derision: a matter of semantics and position position position. the fleshy innocent wolf morphed into mist all the cue cards lost in a tumble wrapped in the travellers towel, the make-up artist’s breasts pressed against his head and he ordered three ships sailing by but cardboard was cheaper to come by a trickle of red stained its beauty where the beast lay dead still there were those who believed that once more it could raise its ugly head from its place in the dirt ; shot & bleeding it lay still , one paw ambling through its guts (now on the outside) ; the redness lost in the B&W concocktion (thankfully) ; fade to white; cut; print. Why does the devil wear his trousers inside out? we ask.
at the moonlight splayed, shot on the dirt floor, silver and soft.
14 December 2009