Popcorn

  Popcorn

  by Ben Elton

  1996

  * * *

  Bruce shoots movies. Wayne and Scout shoot to kill. In a single night they find out the hard way what’s real and what’s not, who’s the hero and the villain. A nation watches in awe as Bruce and Wayne resolve the serious questions. Does art imitate life? And does Bruce use erection cream?

  ONE

  On the morning after the night it happened, Bruce Delamitri was sitting in a police interview room.

  “Name?” said the interrogating officer.

  It wasn’t really a question. The officer knew Bruce’s name, of course, but there was a procedure and he was required to follow it.

  On the morning before, Bruce had been sitting in a television studio. Opposite him, across the sweeping curve of the presentation console, were two Ken-and-Barbie-style presenters of indeterminate age.

  “His name” (pause) “is Bruce Delamitri,” said Ken, employing the sincere, plonking tone he reserved for really big guests.

  “Occupation?” said the policeman on the morning after, as if he didn’t know.

  “He is probably the most celebrated artist working in the motion-picture industry today. A great writer, a great director. Hollywood’s golden boy.”

  “I heard he makes a great pasta sauce too,” interjected Barbie, by way of adding a little human interest.

  It was the morning before, and the last day on which Bruce would hear himself described in such terms.

  “Marital status?” the cop enquired.

  “But career excellence takes its toll, and Hollywood was recently saddened by the news that Bruce’s marriage to actress, model and rock singer Farrah Delamitri was in big trouble. We’ll be talking about that also.”

  The red light on top of the camera facing Bruce lit up. He adopted a suitably sardonic ‘shit happens’ expression. The next twenty-four hours would prove him right about that.

  Bruce tried to look the policeman in the eye. Marital status? What a question. The whole world knew his marital status.

  “My wife is dead.”

  “Tell me about last night.”

  “Tonight is Oscars night,” Ken beamed. “The big one. Numero Uno. Nights don’t get any bigger than this. The night of nights. The nightiest night of them all. The night which, according to all the forecasts, promises to be the greatest night of Bruce Delamitri’s life.”

  “Last night?” said Bruce, who had given up trying to make contact with the cop and now spoke almost to himself. “Last night was more terrible than I could have imagined possible.”

  “You’re watching Coffee Time USA. We’ll be back after these messages,” said the male presenter, whose name was not Ken but Oliver Martin. The studio lights dimmed and the Coffee Time logo came up while Oliver and his female colleague, Dale, stacked their papers in an important manner. There was of course nothing on their papers, but maintaining the fiction that TV presenters are proper journalists, as opposed to people who read whatever comes up on the autocue, is one of the principal duties of current-affairs broadcasting.

  Bruce watched on the monitor in front of him as Oliver and Dale disappeared and were replaced on the screen by four bikini-clad babes clutching soda bottles and tumbling ecstatically out of an old VW Beetle.

  A girl, a beach, it’s happening, it’s real.

  It’s a boost, it’s a buzz, it’s the way you should feel!

  The studio controller killed the volume, and the bikini babes were left sucking on their bottles in muted delight.

  “One and a half minutes on the break,” said the floor manager.

  This was the signal for the make-up girls to rush in and pat gently away at all available faces. Oliver turned to Bruce, addressing him through a flurry of powder and pads.

  “I think what we need to concentrate on here is the fact that our industry is not a dream factory any more. We deal in gritty realism. We show it like it is.”

  The make-up lady applied another layer of slap to Oliver’s already heavily caked features. The gritty reality was that anyone who had acquired such a deep and lustrous tan would long since have died of skin cancer. But Oliver was of the old school of TV presenting: he believed that sporting a thermo-nuclear tan was a mark of respect to the viewer, like wearing a nice shirt and tie. You had to show you’d made the effort.

  “One minute to the break,” said the floor manager.

  Across the vast pastel-coloured desk, Dale’s voice could be heard from the midst of a cloud of hair-spray. “I mean, surely the big issue, Bruce, has got to be this whole copycat killing thing, hasn’t it? I mean, that’s what America is concerned about. As an American woman, it sure is what I’m concerned about. Are you concerned about that, Bruce? As an American man?”

  “America’s population is not as young as it was, and soon the number-one issue concerning the majority of Americans will be adult incontinence.”

  This was not Bruce. It was the TV. The studio controller had pumped the volume back up preparatory to going back on air. It was after nine, and the network advertisers were beginning to switch their focus from workers and schoolkids to a ‘coffee time’ audience, which meant young mums and old lonelys. Soda-sucking babes were giving way to nipple pads, denture fixative and nappies both infant and adult.

  “No, I am not concerned about copy-cat killings,” said Bruce, speaking with difficulty because a young woman was painting some kind of menthol-flavoured grease on to his lips. “I don’t believe that people get up from the movie theatre or the TV and do what they just saw. Otherwise the people who watch this show would all have their hair set in concrete and their brains sucked out along with their cellulite.”

  It was scarcely a comment calculated to endear him to his media colleagues, but that was Bruce. Tough, sarcastic and a bit of a stirrer. If you wore a leather jacket and shades on TV at nine in the morning, you were almost duty-bound to be abrasive. In fact, Bruce had guessed that Dale would not hear his answer anyway. He could see she was the type of interviewer who used her guests’ answers as quiet time in which to consider her next question.

  “Good, good, you should make that point on air,” said Dale absently, checking her eye-liner.

  “Fifteen seconds on the break,” said the floor manager. Four, three, two, one…

  Oliver’s face lit up. “We’re talking to Bruce Delamitri, the hot tip for tonight’s ‘Best Director’ Oscar. But amidst all the glory and the adulation there lurks very real controversy.”

  Dale picked up the ball. “Bruce Delamitri’s movies are hard, tough, witty, sassy street-wise thrillers, where the life is low and the body count is high. Remind you of something?”

  “You tell me, Dale,” said Ollie, deploying his serious and thoughtful face.

  “How about America’s streets?” said Dale, looking equally portentous. “That’s right, the streets of America, hard, tough and dangerous, where the kids grow up fast and dying is a way of life.”

  “You’re saying that the movies of Bruce Delamitri reflect the streets of America?”

  “Some say reflect, some say influence. America, it’s your call. We’ll be back after these messages.”

  The studio lights dimmed again. Oliver and Dale went dark and shuffled their papers.

  “Do you have sensitive teeth? Does ice-cream make you go ow! when you should be going mmmmm?”

  TWO

  On the morning after it all happened, a young woman, hardly more than a girl, stared across a bare formica-topped table at an interrogating police officer. She was being interviewed in the next-door room to the one in which Bruce was being questioned. Unlike Bruce, however, the young woman was considered highly dangerous and was therefore in chains, her thin wrists manacled to her almost equally thin ankles. In fact, so petite was sh
e that it looked as if she could have slipped off the steel bracelets if she had wished and just floated away on the next breeze. She was indifferent to whether they chained her or not. She had nowhere to go anyway.

  “Name?” said the policewoman.

  On the previous morning, this same skinny creature had been asked the same question in the diner of a truck-stop motel just off the Pacific Highway, about a hundred miles north of Los Angeles.

  “I been called a lotta things,” she had replied.

  The short-order chef with whom she was conversing gave her a knowing wink. “I’ll bet one of them things wuz beautiful.”

  The Chef was right. She was beautiful, with her big eyes and thin face. If ever Disney decided to do a stage version of Bambi they would be looking for a girl like her.

  The young woman accepted the chef’s compliment with a giggle. “Are you flirting with me?” she asked, twisting her purse in her hands like a nervous girl.

  “Ain’t nuthin wrong with talking to a pretty thing, is there?” said the chef.

  “I guess not. ‘Cepting you’re lucky my boyfriend cain’t hear ya. On accounta he’s real mean when it comes to flirty guys. Specially Californian guys, who he reckons is just a bunch of no-good faggots.” The young woman picked up her change, which was lying on the counter.

  “His name” (pause) “is Bruce Delamitri.”

  It was Oliver Martin’s voice. A TV hung from a bracket in the corner of the room, and the waitress had turned up the volume. She liked Coffee Time USA.

  “He is probably the most celebrated artist working in the motion-picture industry today. A great writer, a great director. Hollywood’s golden boy.”

  “I heard he makes a great pasta sauce too.”

  Oliver and Dale were working their morning magic. Their guest, Bruce Delamitri, smiled sardonically out of the TV set. The girl at the counter turned to look. For a moment she and Bruce stared into each other’s eyes. Much later, the girl would wonder whether she had felt something at this point.

  The chef was not interested in Coffee Time USA. “You say your fuckin’ boyfriend says I’m a faggot?”

  “He don’t mean nuthin by it,” the scrawny girl said apologetically as she gathered up her Cokes and burgers and fries and headed for the door. “It’s just he’s so tough and hard ‘n’ all that I guess pretty much everybody looks like a faggot to him.”

  “You come back soon, little girl. I’ll show you who’s a faggot,” said the chef. “Bring your boyfriend.”

  “He’d kill ya,” the girl remarked casually over her shoulder as the screen door slammed behind her.

  “Tonight is Oscars night,” said the television set.

  “So tell us about last night,” said the policewoman on the following morning.

  “Well, I guess he kinda got the idea when we was having breakfast and Bruce Delamitri was on Coffee Time with Oliver and Dale. We wuz in a motel, see. I like motels. They’re so clean and nice, and they give you soap and stuff. If I got the chance, that’s where I’d live all the time, motels.”

  The girl walked across the parking lot from the diner to where the line of chalets stood. There had been a summer rain storm and she was barefoot. She sought out the puddles. Warm water on warm tarmac was a lovely sensation. She had very sensitive feet. Sometimes, if they were touched just right, it could make her entire body shiver. She was always trying to get her big tough boyfriend to give her feet a massage. She might as well have asked him to crochet a toilet-roll cover.

  “I don’t believe in no New Age, faggot, hippy bullshit,” he would say, “which in my opinion is eating away at the soul of this great nation and turning us all into old fuckin’ women. Now get me a beer.”

  There were certain subjects on which he was entirely intractable, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be tender and gentle when he wanted to be, and when he was, oh how she loved him.

  She entered their little cabin with the food. He was lying on the bed where she had left him, a gun resting on his chest and another at his waist.

  “Here’s the food, honey. Seeing as how it’s breakfast, I got you a bacon burger. I told him to be sure to grill that bacon good. I know you don’t like eating no raw pig.”

  “Quiet now, honey. I’m watching TV here.”

  On the television Bruce Delamitri was working on his indulgent smile. “Copycat killing? Pur-lease!” he said. “I mean, come on! The whole thing’s a media beat-up, the story du jour. Four networks in search of a controversy.”

  Bruce could be his own worst enemy at times. You didn’t sneer at the presenters of Coffee Time. Not if you wanted to win the hearts and minds of Middle America, which was the purpose of Bruce’s appearance. Many of Coffee Time’s viewers saw Oliver and Dale as their closest and most loyal friends, and did not take kindly to clever-clever, sneery film-school grads acting like these friends were dumb.

  Oliver sensed the atmosphere of the interview souring. He knew that ‘atmospheres’ of any kind were not good morning TV, and he always desperately sought common ground with his guests.

  “C’mon, Bruce, cut us some slack here,” he appealed. “This is a very serious situation. There are two genuine psychos out there, shooting up malls and killing just about everybody they meet, right? Now, in your Oscar-nominated movie Ordinary Americans there’s a very similar young couple who do exactly the same stuff. These two genuine lunatics have blazed a trail across three states massacring innocent strangers.”

  “And every time these crimes are reported in the media,” Bruce interrupted, “the story gets illustrated with a still from my movie. Now who’s making the association? The psychos themselves? Or is it the news editors of America, desperate to get an original angle on yet another boring news bulletin about murder and mayhem?”

  “Copycat murders, for God’s sake! Human beings aren’t Pavlov’s dogs. You can’t just ring a bell and make them salivate. They don’t simply do what they see. If it were that easy to manipulate people, no product would ever fail and no government would ever fall.”

  In the motel chalet the scrawny girl was getting bored with watching Bruce on the TV.

  “Baby?” she said.

  “Quiet, honey. I’m thinking ‘bout something.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  In an instant the man was off the bed and across the room. He clamped himself against the wall beside the door, naked save for his tattoos and the guns he held in either hand. He put one finger to his lips, instructing the girl to say nothing.

  They waited. Inside the TV Bruce continued to pontificate: “Our industry’s in danger. It’s under attack. We’re the scapegoats, the whipping-boys. Every time some kid lets loose with a gun, who do they blame? They blame Hollywood. They blame me. They don’t like my movies — they say they’re wicked. Well, they’re entitled to their opinion. What they’re not entitled to do is foist their craven and reactionary opinions on to everybody else. Censorship is censorship and it sucks!”

  “Provocative? Thought-provoking?” From inside the TV Oliver addressed the room where the two fugitives waited. “You betcha sweet grandma it is. You’re watching Coffee Time USA. We’ll be back after these messages.”

  “Now you can eat what you want and stay trim.”

  There was another knock at the door of the motel room. Still the young man and woman did not answer.

  Then they heard the rattle of keys. The man nodded to the girl. She was still lying on the bed, although she too now held a gun, which she had produced from under her pillow.

  “Who is it?” she called out.

  “Please, you want I make up your room now?” a small Latin American voice asked.

  “No, that’s OK. It’s fine,” said the girl.

  “OK,” said the maid. “I just give you fresh towels.”

  “We don’t want no towels.”

  “OK.” There was a pause. “You want soap?”

  No.

  “OK.” Again a pause. “How about some sachet
coffee and milks? Or maybe you got plenty.”

  “Yeah, we got plenty. We don’t want nuthin.”

  “OK, that’s fine. Thank you.”

  The man, whose every muscle had been taut and every vein pumped full, relaxed a little.

  But then the small voice came again. “So I just check mini-bar, please.”

  Suddenly the door of the chalet burst open and the maid found herself confronted by a furious and stark-naked man. She would scarcely have been more taken aback if she had known that behind the cover of the door-frame he was holding two automatic weapons.

  “No fuckin’ disturbo, comprende? We fuckin’ honeymoono. We make amoro like Speedy fuckin’ Gonzalez, OK?”

  He slammed the door and returned to the bed. His girlfriend was not pleased. “There was no call to—”

  “I am trying to watch TV here!”

  She knew she must not cross him further, and slumped into a sulk instead.

  Bruce was still holding forth on the television. “You can’t ban a movie because you don’t like it. Today it’s sex and violence that get banned, tomorrow who knows? Homosexuality? Blacks? Jews?”

  Oliver and Dale shifted uneasily in their seats. Words like ‘blacks’ and ‘Jews’ were not really Coffee Time words.

  “I’ve heard a lot said these past weeks about the Mall Murderers,” Bruce continued, “so let’s talk about them. I made a move about two sick maniacs, and to and behold we got two real sick maniacs out there. Hey, what d’you know? Put two and two together and it’s my fault! I am responsible. Oh yeah! Weren’t there any maniacs before I made my movie? Weren’t there any sickos and psychos around before movies were even invented? Did Bluebeard and Jack the Ripper get in a time machine and come forward in time to see my picture? Did they think, ‘Hey, great idea! When I get back to my own era I’ll start murdering people’?”

  “But you can’t deny—” Dale began in a brave attempt to stop the flow. It was useless: this was a subject on which Bruce felt strongly.

  “We are scapegoats! This nation is facing a law-and-order crisis of cataclysmic proportions and someone must be blamed. The politicians don’t want to take the heat, so who gets it? Us, the entertainers, the artists. Well, I’ve got news for you. Artists don’t create society, they reflect it. And it you don’t like that, don’t change us, change society.”