Thursday, October 4, 2018

Ezzelino Live Cams, Part Two

I was hooked. I'd entered a door into a magical realm that couldn't have contrasted more with the beer and bratwurst world outside. I was Alice in Wonderland, and everyone I met was young, fun, and incredibly creative. Sleeveless Black T-Shirt finished his introduction and I asked if I could look around.

"Absolutely," he said. In a dressing room to my left, a woman painted a big red heart onto her powdered face. To my right, the costumed couple lazily lounged in the "kitchen" set, continually chatting but without emotion, their faces devoid of expression. I headed there, mystified by the stilted acting and flat dialog, and he followed me. "A Swedish man sent us a script that we are acting out here," he explained. "It is about a young girl and her grandfather."

I stared for probably ten minutes. I couldn't understand the words but I was pretty sure I loved it. It definitely wasn't your grandma's Swedish cinema: while those movies are inarguably brilliant, they don't really comment on the world today, with eight hours of talking about truth and beauty before everyone dies on a beach under a burning scarecrow.

It reminded me of a play I saw last year called the Borderline Procession. A bunch of people sat around around in a bunch of houses, and one by one they were replaced by Britney Spears lookalikes. When everyone was replaced, they sang "Oops I Did It Again" and then the theater went dark.

Because, you know, after you examine life, what's left to say? Nothing. Might as well sing.

These two didn't exactly look like Britney, but I loved their postmodern clothes. I love it when characters are portrayed untraditionally, to express the weirdness of their persona -- like having a person play a dog, or a bag of rocks portray a man. I was dying to know more but the German was impenetrable. Was the grandfather gay? No, that would be too obvious. He probably represented her burgeoning adolescent desires. With his porn mustache and hairy chest he certainly reminded me of mine.

Black T-Shirt Guy got involved with Heart-Face Actress so I walked over to a small room where a man and woman sat in front of a control panel. Mounted on the wall were eight small monitors, and a mixing board sat on a table. They wore microphones and headphones but when I peered inside they stopped talking and invited me in.

The man introduced himself as Merkur, and he said his assistant was Amanda. He said they sat there all day watching the rooms and making sure the actors followed the script. It's more exciting than it sounds, he said, because usually he just slides knobs up and down.

I glanced around the room, overwhelmed. I couldn't begin to imagine the technological scope, even ignoring the artistic venture. The TV screens, the microphones, the cameras, the internet setup: someone had a serious vision and the chops to back it up. I felt like the few scraps of information I had didn't really explain anything, and every time I talked to somebody it just raised more questions. Were the actors reciting memorized lines? Did the writers pay to get their work produced? How many subscribers did they have? Did they stick to avant-garde, allegorical pieces and hope people would appreciate them? I had to start at the beginning.

"So how did this end up in an abandoned shopping mall?"

"This is actually my second try," he said. "I set up something similar but couldn't make it profitable. I was working here, at the Spielhalle, when they went out of business and they let me take over the lease. We've been here over two years."

"And now you work here full-time?"

He nodded. "We wake up at 4:30 in the afternoon and work all night," he said. "We all live here, in a big room in the back."

I absorbed this new piece of the puzzle and tried to add it to the picture inside my head. Instead of explaining anything, it just made it seem more impossible. They lived here? For two years now? The dedication, the artistry, the sheer edginess made Andy Warhol look like Grandma Moses.

"And all because of a Swedish man," I said.

He shot me a surprised look. "Yes," he finally said. "Because of him. But we have had other customers."

A red flag flew inside my head. I'd meant that this current production was for the Swedish man, but the answer implied far more. And considering they'd had six studios for two years I'd assume there'd be "other customers."

I sensed I'd worn out my welcome so I said goodbye and explored further, ending up at the communal bedroom. Yes, they clearly lived here. The refrigerator, the dirty clothes and the artsy slashes of paint testified to that.

Like some demented Goldilocks, names were painted over each bed.

While I was soaking in the details, a spunky young woman grabbed me from behind. "You speak English!" she said. "I speak English! I will explain everything to you!"

Melanie talked non-stop, mostly incomprehensibly. One thing I've learned is that the more someone insists they speak English, the less likely it is that they do. Maybe in her head she was fluent, but the sounds coming out of her mouth didn't even come close.

Melanie brought out an iPad and I thought I heard the word "chatroom." I still didn't know what their subscribers got for their money, so I examined it with interest. The screen was completely blank.

My unease bumped up another notch. Melanie looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. "No people yet," she said. "I just turn it on."

One more question got added to the end of the list. How did this make sense? Wasn't it supposed to be a twenty-four hour operation? I assumed they had thousands of subscribers supporting them, so wouldn't there always be somebody in the chat room?

Still, I wrote it off. I glanced around the room and felt envious that people believed in art so strongly that they subjected themselves to this. Melanie practiced her English for a few more minutes and then held up the iPad again. "Busy now!" she said.

It wasn't busy. Two people were exchanging small talk. They clearly couldn't have been "subscribers," because instead of discussing art or film their conversation consisted solely of the lines "Where are you?" and "I'm in Australia."

We were staring at the iPad when we heard a scream. Melanie smiled and shrugged her shoulders, and I thought about ignoring it too until another one followed, and then another. I ran toward the sound and discovered it was coming from the kitchen. The young girl was now sprawled out on the ground and her grandfather stood over her.

They were arguing.

The grandfather grabbed a hot iron and swung it at his granddaughter. She tried to fight him off but he was stronger. He pressed it against her face and she screamed again.

He grabbed the free end of the cord and wrapped it around her neck. He pulled on it, choking her, and she gasped for breath. That's when I noticed she was pregnant, at least five or six months along. He screamed in German. I didn't understand. He was mad about the pregnancy, maybe. She was too young. Maybe he didn't like the dad.

That's when he picked up a knife and started stabbing her in the stomach.

Or ... could he be the dad? I thought.

I took one last look at the pair and ran for the door. I don't remember any more of the afternoon. The questions that had been circling inside my head were being answered much too quickly. Merkur told me: there was no global audience -- just the Swedish man. If he didn't build the studio, he bought it. Merkur's first failed business. He paid for everything; he scripted everything. These kids stayed here and acted out what he wrote. He had these people perform everything he couldn't do in real life.

And so we abandon the Spielhalle, and our new acquaintances. We brush off everything we felt that afternoon: the jealousy, the admiration, the sense of adventure and fun. We abandon the young woman dying on the ground and we find our way back to the mall. It is dark and everyone is gone but noises still rattle the plywood that boards up the broken windows. Now the sounds evoke new images, of actors and a play about incest and infanticide. The meta-image of the author is also there: with his money, his power, and the lives he controls with his whim. Creating a world and then watching it, from far away, unfold on the internet.

We glance over our shoulder for one last look. We know we've seen something we shouldn't have, as the images start to flash and swoop in our head like buzzards looking for a kill.

No comments: