27 February, 2005

subconscious sinema with blatant vaginal imagery

~ dream diary ~

I ~ Friday night, Feb 25th

In the local shopping certre, a stall has been set up. But this is not your average kiddies-painting-plaster-of-paris-figurines type deal. This stall is selling shooting practice. As I walk past, the proprietor, dressed in army fatigues, hands a squarish metal "practice gun" which looks home-made and deadly, to a middle-aged patron. The patron takes aim at his target: a cardboard cut-out of an old man in a bright red shirt, which stands about ten metres down the concourse. The patron fires several times and gets the picture of the old man right in the head. The cardboard cut-out goes tumbling away along the arcade. As I turn away in idealogical disgust (yet without even contemplating the H&S/Public-liability nightmare of a gun being fired in a crowded shopping centre), the proprietor of the stall begins pitching the benefits and fun of gun-practice directly to me. I turn on him in a fearsome rage, and a brutal verbal brawl ensues between myself and this right-wing freak, who is trying to spread the joys of gunplay to the masses of Melbourne's South East. I might get thrown out by security for this, but it's worth it.

Later, I am involved in a filmshoot which is taking place in the grubby depot of my place of work. The film being made has been written by my beloved Ms Snazzles, and she is playing the main role. The film is some kind of GosfordPark-esque character drama set amongst the servant/served relationships in an early 20th Century manor. Sarah is playing a lonely servant-girl. I have the honour of being an extra (right next to Snazzles, the main character) in a scene where we meet The President Of The United States. We are to act overwhemed and excited, then perform a dance for him. I think it is rather inappropriate to be shooting this among the excavators and bobcats, in front of red-brick 1950s industrial buildings. But the director - who is cameoing as the President - assures us that the backgrounds can all be digitally changed to fit the film's setting, in post-production. I can't find my shirt and I'm not certain I know the steps for this dance, but I'm pretty sure I can wing it.

II ~ Saturday afternoon, Feb 26th

I am running alongside a huge highway. I have just crossed the border between WA and Victoria. (and yes, now that I'm awake, I know there isn't one.) I cross a bridge. Beneath it is a tunnel. I enter. It is an old train tunnel, three tracks wide, but now blocked by a mass of pipes and large metal bars. This is the first tunnel. I have done this before. Beyond the first tunnel, more running. Plants and moist earth and darkness. There is soil and it has been raining. The second tunnel is just like the first, but blocked with a maze of plastic obstructions the colour of safety witches-hats. One of the three tracks in this tunnel is still active, and a train could come at any moment. I have to be very careful. Now I am outside. In the farm-house is a white step-ladder. I am in front! It is a race. I am ahead of that other guy who is trying to beat me to the prize, which we all know is in the third tunnel. I know how this works. This is a film. I am in a film about me racing to navigate these tunnels. I am watching the film and I am the main character, at the same time. The third tunnel is a cave, with electric lights, metal doors and hidden secrets. I am almost at the end. I am about to win! I am going to get arrested. They grab me.

My movie is finished. It is going to be screened for the first time, in front of the rest of my film-making class, in a couple of hours. I watch Mr Michael B (my friend from Uni, and essentially the first boy who ever crushed my heart) screen his film now. In Mr Michael's film, he is in a barn, struggling to repair the hugely prolapsed uterus of an enormous black cow. His rubber gloves are not nearly adequate. He manages to push the abject-pink mass back inside the cow, but it slips out again. Michael realises the reason the reproductive organs won't stay inside the cow, is because there is something tangled among the flesh: a strange black glove, puffy like a ski-glove and now wet with bovine-juice. He pulls it out, puts the cow's organs back in place, and storms from the barn with the glove, to confront three young guys sitting in deck-chairs. They all wear similar gloves, in different colours, but the biggest and meanest-looking of the three is only wearing one: a black one. He is a cruel bully. He guffaws at Michael, who holds his other glove, still dripping. Before long they are chasing Michael around the farmyard, throwing their gloves at him like grid-iron balls.

Michael and I watch this - the short-film he has made - from the balcony of the farm-house, as the three bullies chase the film-Michael around below us. "I hate that guy," the real Michael says of the actor playing the biggest bully, "He's such an asshole". "Then why get him to be in your movie?" I enquire. "Sean Penn," he replies. I know exactly what he means.
Sometimes assholes are fantastic actors.




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