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My
name isn't Bond, nor
James either. By the
way, my name isn't an
interesting thing. What
mattered was that I
felt completely lost,
like a character who
had escaped from the
mind of Charles
Bukowski –
chit-chatting with my
liver – while
heading to a movie
theater. Yeah! I was
drunk, walking on East
45th Street in Midtown
Manhattan, in front of
the former Roosevelt
Hotel, when a woman
approached me and,
without hesitation,
said, "Mr. Holden? Is
that you?"
I stopped and kept
looking at the blue
eyes staring at me. She
continued, "Hi! I'm
Brenda!" I replied, "Do
I know you?" She
insisted, "Maybe you
don't remember, but I
was in your screenplay
course at Brooklyn
College."
At that moment, the
effect of the alcohol
vanished immediately,
and I remembered who
she was. "Of course, I
remember you. You wrote
the best screenplay I
have ever read in my
life. What happened to
your script?" She
smiled and replied, "I
lost it!" I was
annoyed. "How did you
lose it?" Then, she
calmly explained, "I
didn't save it on any
other computers. A
hacker attacked me, and
my hard drive was
completely wiped before
I could copy it to the
cloud."
"Girl, I'm your
superhero," I said
confidently. Brenda
looked at me. "What're
you talking about?" I
took a deep breath and,
with the scent of
alcohol on my breath,
whispered, "I have a
copy in my apartment."
Brenda almost passed
out. I asked, "What are
you doing now?" She
replied excitedly,
"Nothing! I was going
to have a coffee, but
with that news, I don't
know what to do…"
Then I told her I was
going to see Opening
Night by John
Cassavetes at
Metrograph, and invited
her to come along as my
guest if she wanted.
She asked about her
screenplay. I said that
after the movie, we
could get a coffee, and
later, we'd go to my
apartment so she could
get her script. She
thought for a moment
and said, "That's okay
with me. I love
Cassavetes!" We took a
cab to Ludlow Street,
ready to dive into the
materialized dream of
John Cassavetes at the
art-house in the Lower
East Side.
At a coffee shop after
the movie, we got into
a deep debate about
Gena Rowlands'
character, a distraught
woman aging and
struggling with her
mind to erase the
vision of the dead girl
fan from the beginning
of the film.
So, when we left the
coffee shop, a storm
embraced the city. We
ran to escape the heavy
rain, and while heading
to my apartment, Brenda
caught a glimpse of the
great Broadway star,
Myrtle Gordon, stepping
out of a limousine on
the other side of the
street and rushed over
to ask for an
autograph. She was so
excited that she didn't
see a car coming toward
her. Full of fear, I
closed my eyes, but not
my ears.
I heard a braking noise, a crash and a scream hanging in the air.
I slowly opened my eyes
and saw only an empty
limousine parked on the
other side of the
street. Nothing else.
Where was Brenda? Where
was the Broadway star?
No one was there. It
was as if everything I
had lived in the past
few hours had never
existed. Only the movie
and the rain, dripping
from my Kangol beret.
Then I remembered the
screenplay and hurried
to my apartment.
When I arrived, I went
to the closet, opened
the drawer, and
searched for
Brenda's script,
but found nothing.
Maybe there had never
been a script. What
should I do next? Never
mind. I thought of
Charles Bukowski and
poured a vodka with
mineral water, and
drank all night,
reflecting on
Cassavetes' movie
and his body of work:
raw truth, close-ups of
characters with
troubled minds,
dialogues as sharp as
an archer's spear, and
the fear of achieving
happiness along the
path of guilt. Lost in
these thoughts, I spent
the night trying to
come up with an idea
for a movie script. It
wouldn't come. Oh,
shit. This vodka sucks.
END
*fic-review: a review written mixed with fiction.
Opening Night
(1977) / Directed and
written by John
Cassavetes; Produced by
Al Ruban; with Gena
Rowlands, Ben Gazzara,
Joan Blondell, Paul
Stewart, Zohra Lampert,
John Cassavetes;
Cinematography by Alan
Ruban; Edited by Tom
Cornwell; Music by Bo
Harwood.
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