Pornographer Despairs

Last week I almost rented three films by Alain Tanner because I’m sure I could write you something that would fit as well as his stories fit his incredible faces and emotions. I can’t make the truly beautiful stuff like “Who in the Hell is Juliette?” or “Marie Baie des Anges” or “Maborisi,” each of which left me wasted with despair at my inability to be poetic and profound. The pornographer relies on volume and color, and that’s me, loud and bright, but aesthetically unsound. I know I could do something like Tanner, though: intellectual and sober. But I didn’t rent the movies because at the last minute reality descended and reminded me of our separate destinies and spurred me toward completion of Frogtown, my screenplay, my rescue, my hope and glory, etc. So finally I’m sending you a reminder of my intentions to capture your spirit and show it off as something nobody’s seen before, especially you. The scene enclosed is from Frogtown, and features the ravishing, tough, brilliant and well-hung Fiona Lotion, arch-villainess of my story about the molecualr relationship between the chemicals released in the brain during death, heroin use, and orgasm. It’s a pathetic scene, really, and I haven’t cast the victim yet: Juju Bean, a mix between James Bond and Patrick Deware, dashing and impotent. Can we film this scene in a dark alley a la Third Man sometime soon? Like in the next three weeks? What’s the SAG minimum? I’ll pay it.

How are you?