A wealthy man covets a series of six paintings.
He competes with a wealthy antagonist to acquire them--by legal and other means.
The two collectors, as it happens, also compete for the favors of a handsome young man.
The first collector explains to his young lover that the paintings, though seemingly unconnected, contain a secret meaning, a meaning which can only be discovered by re-enacting them.
The collector hires actors--including people known to the young lover--to act out the paintings for the young lover to observe.
As in Hamlet, the staging of the scenes aims to provoke a confession in the young lover of his infidelities.
Many confessions do indeed come forth, but they are minor.
The mystery of the paintings remains hidden until the collector reveals his theory that there must have been a seventh painting, now lost or destroyed, which explained the meaning of all the paintings and proved their connection.
That painting was at one point in the possession of the young lover's family. It was that family that was responsible for stealing the painting from wealthy collector's family--and sending them to the gas chambers.
In restaging the final, missing painting, the wealthy collector is, it turns out, staging his own death. The effect on the young lover is so profound that it causes his death, too, but in the process it reveals to the dying collector that, whatever his faults, the young man did indeed love the collector.
The scene has been staged for the benefit of the rival collector, who gets to find out that the young man who toyed with his affections was merely playing.
And the two deaths in turn cause the missing painting to be recaptured in the form of a crime scene photograph, which passes, as do the rest of the paintings, indeed the very house where the stagings and deaths have occurred, to the ownership of the now lonely and bereaved collector who now becomes entombed with his possessions--and his memories.
--E. R. O'Neill
(With apologies to Raoul Ruiz and Peter Greenaway).
Friday, April 18, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
Some Must Watch.
"For some must watch while some must sleep.
So runs the world away."
So runs the world away."
--Hamlet
An offbeat anesthesiologist discovers a novel method for curing insomnia.
Unfortunately, it has remarkable and unexpected consequences.
People who use the method start falling asleep whenever anyone else does.
A result is whole cities that fall asleep in waves and threatening to put the whole world to sleep forever.
Until an intrepid, nerdy young boy....
--E. R. O'Neill
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
1160 Morning Glory Circle
A documentary about a seemingly placid childhood.
It's reconstructed from old photos and home movie footage.
It seems like nothing happened. But there are sinister overtones.
In fact, absolutely nothing happened.
It's like that line in the movie Happiness where the pretentious writer says 'Oh if only I'd been raped as a child.'
The lack of trauma has itself become a source of trauma. (We're circularly trapped in trauma--it's our only way of framing any past experience.)
--E. R. O'Neill
It's reconstructed from old photos and home movie footage.
It seems like nothing happened. But there are sinister overtones.
In fact, absolutely nothing happened.
It's like that line in the movie Happiness where the pretentious writer says 'Oh if only I'd been raped as a child.'
The lack of trauma has itself become a source of trauma. (We're circularly trapped in trauma--it's our only way of framing any past experience.)
--E. R. O'Neill
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Glitter and Reknown (aka Her Greatest Role).
A young woman in a small town is graduating high school--and starring in the senior play. She dreams of being an actress--of glitter and reknown.
She writes to her mother--who ran away years earlier. Her mother is now a great stage actress--or so she believes from ther mother's infrequent letters.
The mother arrives for the event in the most Great Actress high style, but there are small clues that it's an act, that she's struggled terribly, and is putting on a show for her daughter's sake.
She rekindles old animosities with her one-time husband and tries to win the love of the children she abandoned.
The actress wins everyone's esteem by performing scenes from her greatest role--Shaw's Pygmalion.
The daughter's play is a success, and the daughter wants to leave the mother to travel.
The mother must confess--but we guessed all along--that she is not a great success, is a third-rate failure. She hurts and alienates her daughter terribly.
Probably the daughter will try to become an actress anyway, despite her mother's failure. The mother has tried to save her daughter much sorrow. But you can't protect people from themselves--or from life--no matter how hard you try.
Finally, though, her daughter may take her off a pedestal and begin to grow up.
The actress leaves town, still playing the role of the grand dame for the public, though her family now knows the truth.
She arrives home to a great mansion filled with servants, hanger's on, and memorabilia of her long career. The whole trip was an act--her greatest role.
Within all the glitter, we can see that she is still terribly terribly lonely.
--E. R. O'Neill
(a rewrite of All I Desire)
She writes to her mother--who ran away years earlier. Her mother is now a great stage actress--or so she believes from ther mother's infrequent letters.
The mother arrives for the event in the most Great Actress high style, but there are small clues that it's an act, that she's struggled terribly, and is putting on a show for her daughter's sake.
She rekindles old animosities with her one-time husband and tries to win the love of the children she abandoned.
The actress wins everyone's esteem by performing scenes from her greatest role--Shaw's Pygmalion.
The daughter's play is a success, and the daughter wants to leave the mother to travel.
The mother must confess--but we guessed all along--that she is not a great success, is a third-rate failure. She hurts and alienates her daughter terribly.
Probably the daughter will try to become an actress anyway, despite her mother's failure. The mother has tried to save her daughter much sorrow. But you can't protect people from themselves--or from life--no matter how hard you try.
Finally, though, her daughter may take her off a pedestal and begin to grow up.
The actress leaves town, still playing the role of the grand dame for the public, though her family now knows the truth.
She arrives home to a great mansion filled with servants, hanger's on, and memorabilia of her long career. The whole trip was an act--her greatest role.
Within all the glitter, we can see that she is still terribly terribly lonely.
--E. R. O'Neill
(a rewrite of All I Desire)
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Fuck The iPhone.
A gunphone. It can also take pictures. The seductive feature of this gunphone is that it automatically takes a picture upon firing, and then sends it to all of your contacts. A snuff filmmaker's wet dream.
(Tip of the hat to Peeping Tom.)
(Tip of the hat to Peeping Tom.)
Friday, June 8, 2007
Conspiracy.
A DEA agent goes undercover in a prison to find out how the gangs are able to run drugs.
It turns out drugs are only a small part of the operation. The main thing is guns.
But it's government itself that's arming prison gangs --to build an army to enforce martial law.
In the end a prison riot becomes the excuse to begin the project.
--E. R. O'Neill
(It's not my theory: some Branch Davidians believe David Koresh founds out the government's secret plot to impose martial law and had to be killed by the DEA.)
It turns out drugs are only a small part of the operation. The main thing is guns.
But it's government itself that's arming prison gangs --to build an army to enforce martial law.
In the end a prison riot becomes the excuse to begin the project.
--E. R. O'Neill
(It's not my theory: some Branch Davidians believe David Koresh founds out the government's secret plot to impose martial law and had to be killed by the DEA.)
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Shakespeare: The Musical
(Alternate Titles: "Shakespeare in Manhattan" or "The Place Beneath.")
Shakespeare re-appears on earth to mortals--at the Harvard Yacht Club, drinking a cosmopolitan and smoking a Winston Ultra Light, with Saint Dymphna, who in this incarnation is a black woman who runs a nightclub on the upper west side.
Shakespeare's appearance causes a very minor sensation. He is on Page Six and everything.
Ultimately, of course, he is hired to write the book and lyrics for a new Broadway musical: "Three Iz Da Funk"--an all-black hip-hop adaptation of the TV show Three's Company.
A savage once-major critic eagerly looks forward to the opening. He has a long-standing grudge against the producer, and no one pays attention to his reviews anymore: he fell from grace when he wrote a savage pan of a children's Easter pageant. His wife divorced him, and he went from a prestigious paper to a crappy one.
So our critic friend is looking forward to writing a searing pan of something everyone agrees is bad--to set everyone on their ear laughing and jeering at the new show to put him back on his perch.
Shakespeare turns out to be a hack. He dumps in all his usual tricks: women dressing as men, people feigning madness, soliloquies--old stuff nobody does anymore. It's awful--even more awful than the original premise, or the original show (if possible).
The show gets worse and worse. The director's a pretentious British windbag, which doesn't help. And the black cast includes actors who should get better material and are fairly sick and bitter about the gig from the get-go.
Gossip gets out to the critic, who's fairly salivating. He'll get his old job back. His reviews will be quoted on posters. Maybe his ex-wife will patch things up. Maybe he'll even get an easy job--like reviewing movies.
But Shakespeare proves acutely psychologically insightful and helps all the actors in the show (and the woman who washes up the theater, too). Everywhere he goes, he dispenses marvelous insight to people and changes their lives. He's beloved.
It turns out "Shakespeare" is just a washed-up actor nobody remembers named Ted Fearfield. (The ancient stagehands remember, but they never bother to mention it.) He once ran in Titus Andronicus on Broadway for all of three performances. Other than that, he had minor parts and was quickly forgotten. The Titus wasn't that bad, but he screwed a major critic's wife--you can guess whose--and that single savage review ended the show and his career. The critic left his wife, and she's who knows where.
As if by magic, the show starts going well. There's positive buzz everywhere. People are talking about awards, movie adaptations, transfer to Vegas.
The major critic keeps being on the verge of remembering the has-been actor. He has to meet a tight-ass at the restaurant Andronico's. That reminds him of something.... Someone tries to think of Shakespeare's bloodiest play. They list all of them (except Titus): he can't quite recall the title. (Only a waiter remembers.) It's only when his dinner arrives and it's a big plate of ham that he remembers shouts "Ted Fearfield."
The critic runs to the library to get the review, a photo, an old program, proving "Shakespeare" is really Ted Fearfield. The resemblance is dim. No one can match up the picture with the actor.
But a rumor starts. There's gossip in the gossip pages (again). But people stand up for the "Shakespeare": the show's cast, its director, even just random people on the street.
The critic finally confronts the actor, tries to get him to confess, or to trap him. But the actor cannot be stopped. Who is "Ted Fearfield" anyway? Can anyone even find his birth certificate? It was just a stage name. He realized one day there was nothing to prove he ever existed, and he realized that was his great opportunity in life--to start fresh, to make every day of living magical, the way it is in great drama, to create a whole new life, the way playwrights do. Or the way actors do every night when that curtain goes up and they're whomever they imagine themselves to be, whomever they can convince the audience they are, because the audience wants to believe in magic.
'Shakespeare,' with his infallible psychological insight, makes the critic realize what a sham his life has been and how his whole life should have been centered around his former wife. He accepts the truth of the actor's insight, decides to give up on panning the show.
All's almost resolved when the police show up. "Shakespeare" owes $8,612 dollars in parking tickets dating back thirty years--not including interest. His fingerprints are on the paperwork to prove he's just a guy who drove a cab for a dozen years many years ago.
That night in jail "Shakespeare" works his magic on the guards, the other prisoners. Everyone loves him--even his public defender lawyer.
It's opening night. The crowds are tremendous, the cast tearful. It's a real "the-show-must-go-on" moment. But the critic isn't there: his seat's empty.
He knocks on his ex-wife's door. He begs, pleads, to be taken back. She takes him back without a fuss. She would have done so at any time, she says. All he had to do was ask. "The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath."
The next morning is to be "Shakespeare's" first court appearance. It's a zoo--straight out of Meet John Doe. The actors are their, clutching their great reviews and still carrying champagne glasses. TV camera crews interview the partisans: he's a great old guy, who cares if he's a fraud; what's a fake anyway, aren't we all fakes; I'll pay his parking tickets; they should hang him; etc. The usual media circus of craziness.
But when the police come to his cell take "Shakespeare" for his first court appearance, he's gone. Vanished.
The critic and his wife grab a cab to city hall to get remarried. The cabbie looks awfully familiar. Is it? It isn't. Or is it?
--E. R. O'Neill
P.S. I literally dreamt this one last night.
Shakespeare re-appears on earth to mortals--at the Harvard Yacht Club, drinking a cosmopolitan and smoking a Winston Ultra Light, with Saint Dymphna, who in this incarnation is a black woman who runs a nightclub on the upper west side.
Shakespeare's appearance causes a very minor sensation. He is on Page Six and everything.
Ultimately, of course, he is hired to write the book and lyrics for a new Broadway musical: "Three Iz Da Funk"--an all-black hip-hop adaptation of the TV show Three's Company.
A savage once-major critic eagerly looks forward to the opening. He has a long-standing grudge against the producer, and no one pays attention to his reviews anymore: he fell from grace when he wrote a savage pan of a children's Easter pageant. His wife divorced him, and he went from a prestigious paper to a crappy one.
So our critic friend is looking forward to writing a searing pan of something everyone agrees is bad--to set everyone on their ear laughing and jeering at the new show to put him back on his perch.
Shakespeare turns out to be a hack. He dumps in all his usual tricks: women dressing as men, people feigning madness, soliloquies--old stuff nobody does anymore. It's awful--even more awful than the original premise, or the original show (if possible).
The show gets worse and worse. The director's a pretentious British windbag, which doesn't help. And the black cast includes actors who should get better material and are fairly sick and bitter about the gig from the get-go.
Gossip gets out to the critic, who's fairly salivating. He'll get his old job back. His reviews will be quoted on posters. Maybe his ex-wife will patch things up. Maybe he'll even get an easy job--like reviewing movies.
But Shakespeare proves acutely psychologically insightful and helps all the actors in the show (and the woman who washes up the theater, too). Everywhere he goes, he dispenses marvelous insight to people and changes their lives. He's beloved.
It turns out "Shakespeare" is just a washed-up actor nobody remembers named Ted Fearfield. (The ancient stagehands remember, but they never bother to mention it.) He once ran in Titus Andronicus on Broadway for all of three performances. Other than that, he had minor parts and was quickly forgotten. The Titus wasn't that bad, but he screwed a major critic's wife--you can guess whose--and that single savage review ended the show and his career. The critic left his wife, and she's who knows where.
As if by magic, the show starts going well. There's positive buzz everywhere. People are talking about awards, movie adaptations, transfer to Vegas.
The major critic keeps being on the verge of remembering the has-been actor. He has to meet a tight-ass at the restaurant Andronico's. That reminds him of something.... Someone tries to think of Shakespeare's bloodiest play. They list all of them (except Titus): he can't quite recall the title. (Only a waiter remembers.) It's only when his dinner arrives and it's a big plate of ham that he remembers shouts "Ted Fearfield."
The critic runs to the library to get the review, a photo, an old program, proving "Shakespeare" is really Ted Fearfield. The resemblance is dim. No one can match up the picture with the actor.
But a rumor starts. There's gossip in the gossip pages (again). But people stand up for the "Shakespeare": the show's cast, its director, even just random people on the street.
The critic finally confronts the actor, tries to get him to confess, or to trap him. But the actor cannot be stopped. Who is "Ted Fearfield" anyway? Can anyone even find his birth certificate? It was just a stage name. He realized one day there was nothing to prove he ever existed, and he realized that was his great opportunity in life--to start fresh, to make every day of living magical, the way it is in great drama, to create a whole new life, the way playwrights do. Or the way actors do every night when that curtain goes up and they're whomever they imagine themselves to be, whomever they can convince the audience they are, because the audience wants to believe in magic.
'Shakespeare,' with his infallible psychological insight, makes the critic realize what a sham his life has been and how his whole life should have been centered around his former wife. He accepts the truth of the actor's insight, decides to give up on panning the show.
All's almost resolved when the police show up. "Shakespeare" owes $8,612 dollars in parking tickets dating back thirty years--not including interest. His fingerprints are on the paperwork to prove he's just a guy who drove a cab for a dozen years many years ago.
That night in jail "Shakespeare" works his magic on the guards, the other prisoners. Everyone loves him--even his public defender lawyer.
It's opening night. The crowds are tremendous, the cast tearful. It's a real "the-show-must-go-on" moment. But the critic isn't there: his seat's empty.
He knocks on his ex-wife's door. He begs, pleads, to be taken back. She takes him back without a fuss. She would have done so at any time, she says. All he had to do was ask. "The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath."
The next morning is to be "Shakespeare's" first court appearance. It's a zoo--straight out of Meet John Doe. The actors are their, clutching their great reviews and still carrying champagne glasses. TV camera crews interview the partisans: he's a great old guy, who cares if he's a fraud; what's a fake anyway, aren't we all fakes; I'll pay his parking tickets; they should hang him; etc. The usual media circus of craziness.
But when the police come to his cell take "Shakespeare" for his first court appearance, he's gone. Vanished.
The critic and his wife grab a cab to city hall to get remarried. The cabbie looks awfully familiar. Is it? It isn't. Or is it?
--E. R. O'Neill
P.S. I literally dreamt this one last night.
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